


Unexpected Lifelines

by betafish909



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: District 4, Finnick Odair - Freeform, Finnick Odair Lives, Gen, Hunger Games, Hunger Games Tributes, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2020-06-27 01:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19780387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betafish909/pseuds/betafish909
Summary: When Wren Medler is plucked from the obscurity of District Four and thrust into the 73rd annual hunger games, her short life appears to be hurtling towards its end. Everyone agrees, especially Finnick Odair. But can't endings be beginnings in disguise? Can't family be forged in the crucible of the games? Finnick/OC





	1. The Reaping

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, thank you for clicking on my story! This is an O/C series that I have been putting together since 2016, so I hope that you enjoy! I've written most of the story already, so expect frequent updates! Finnick will be coming into the foreground of the plot very soon and I intend to map out his relationship with Wren from this early point all the way up to Mockingjay. Please enjoy and drop me a review! Happy reading.

Why am I not nervous? I should be nervous. It’s reaping day after all. And yet, every time I search for the feeling, I come up empty handed. Which is a blessing, I suppose, given that everyone else here is panicking. Reaping day always went like this, especially in Medler House. We are District Four’s only community home, meaning that we house all sorts: rosy cheeked twelve-year-olds glowing with youth, gangly teenagers tripping over their growing limbs, and eighteen-year-olds on the cusp of adulthood. All abandoned, all alone. My eyes are drawn to the youngest ones who wear identical shell-shocked expressions. Every now and then, I catch one glancing up, wide eyes searching for help. I did the same thing on the morning of my first reaping. But now I’m on my third, practically a veteran, and I’ve learnt the awful truth: no one can help anyone. Not here and certainly not on reaping day.

I catch myself staring for a moment too long, and lock eyes with a young boy. He’s frozen in the middle of the hallway, toothbrush clenched tight between shaking fingers. He looks young, far too young to be heading towards a reaping. There’s a brief moment when nothing passes between us but matching blank stares. Then he opens his mouth and lets out a piercing wail.

_Shit._

I move without thinking, racing to the boy’s side. “Stop,” I say, thumbing his tears away with my free hand. “You can’t do this here, do you understand? Not here.”

His chin is wobbling uncontrollably, revealing a row of pearly white baby teeth. I watch, fascinated, as he gulps unevenly, trying to form words. Maybe he would find them if we had more time. But we don’t.

“This is your first reaping, isn’t it?” I ask, speaking over his cries.

He nods, shaking so hard that it’s nauseating to watch. If he’s like this in Medler House, what’s going to happen in the reaping square? What’s going to happen when all of Panem is watching?

“Well, that means that you have nothing to worry about,” I say. “Four is a career district. Do you know what that means?”

He considers it momentarily before answering, “that we train.”

“That we train,” I repeat solemnly. “And what does that mean?”

His soft, blonde brows draw together in confusion.

“Volunteers.” I provide the answer gently and wait for the penny to drop.

His eyes light up instantly, sparkling with something resembling relief. Everyone volunteers in Four, it’s a known fact. We haven’t seen a tribute enter the arena unwillingly in years. Even Annie Cresta volunteered for the games that drove her mad. She’s an odd fish, that one. People had a tendency to forget about her. Well, less of a tendency and more of an active desire. She was thought of as an embarrassment, a blemish on Four’s otherwise flawless line-up of victors. But still, I found her interesting; there was something behind those wide, frenzied eyes. Something unfiltered, honest. Perhaps she would be at the reaping today. Not that anyone would notice. Especially if Finnick Odair is up there too, which is practically guaranteed. He’s never been one to shy away from the cameras. No, nobody would notice mad Annie Cresta then.

I return my focus to the boy. “You see? Nothing to worry about.”

He nods, looking sheepish, which is a lot better than terrified. I waste no time, escorting him to the male queue. We will be leaving for the reaping square any minute now, and I’m late enough as it is. If Ms Violet, Chief Warden of Medler House, catches sight of me, I will be in terrible trouble. So I speed up, desperately trying to wrangle my frizzy curls into a hair-do that’s half-presentable. I’m so focused on the task that I practically collide with the back of the girl’s queue. That’s when I feel it: A bony hand that latches onto my wrist.

“Wren Medler. You’re late,” Ms Violet says, voice hard and cold.

The sound of it causes most of the girls to turn their heads, observing the unfolding spectacle with shrouded interest. I want to snatch my hand away. I want to turn and run as fast as I can. But it’s too late for that. I would be dragged back here in seconds, only having doubled the trouble that I’m in. So I make a different choice. I steel myself and raise my chin.

“I overslept,” I lie. “I’m sorry, Ms Violet.”

She tightens her grip on my wrist, twisting it painfully. It’s all I can do not to scream. She doesn’t believe me. Of course she doesn’t. I’m a terrible liar, and Ms Violet is no fool. She isn’t weak either for that matter. She’s built like a man, with stocky shoulders and a broad frame. Everybody in Medler House knows her silhouette better than their own, has the sound of her footsteps committed to memory. And with good reason, too. Ms Violet is the cruellest of Medler House’s Wardens. She’s a woman fascinated with tormenting children. I used to believe that she was born for the job. As if, without this community home, she would simply cease to exist. But then, after being subjected to her merciless rule for fourteen years, I stopped caring. I realised that all I had to do was stay out of her way – something that, currently, I am failing at miserably.

“You are to report to my office after the reaping. Understood?” she says, punctuating each word with a squeeze of my wrist. It will definitely bruise.

“Understood.”

She lets go, storming off to the front of the queue, and we begin our brisk walk to the square. I cradle my wrist to my stomach and glance up at the sky. It’s a miserable day in Four. Storm clouds hang overhead, swelling with the threat of rain. If I strain my ears, I can make out a few girls sniggering up ahead. They’re older girls - eighteen-year-olds – who are giddy with the promise that this will be their final reaping. I’m embarrassed when I cannot muster the courage to scowl at them.

“Wren?” A voice sounds from just over my shoulder.

I turn, preparing to snap at whoever has come to laugh at me now. That’s when I see her.

“Clara?” I smile, forgetting myself.

She looks beautiful, she always does. Her red hair is swept into a polished ponytail, effortless. Clara is my best friend. In fact, I’m pretty certain that she’s the only person in the world that I truly love. We couldn’t be more different, though. She is tall and elegant; I am short and scrawny. She has bright, sea-blue eyes; mine are dull brown and far too wide for my face. I think I’ve always admired her, even when we were little.

I recall one incident, years ago, when I spent the better part of a day scrubbing my skin raw in the bathtub. I didn’t understand it then, why my skin wasn’t fair like hers. I suppose somewhere in my six-year-old mind I thought that if I scrubbed hard enough, I would come out the same colour. When the other girls found out, they mocked me for days. And Clara did what she always did – she looked after me.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” she says, slotting into line at my side.

Before I can say anything, her face lights up with a conspiratorial smile and she lowers her voice.

“I overheard some of the girls talking. Apparently, Ms Violet has found her latest victim,” she says, arching a brow. “Poor thing. I bet she hopes that the Capitol get to her first.”

I smile ruefully, holding my wrist up in reply.

Clara gasps the moment she sees it, practically stopping in her tracks. “It was you? Wren, I didn’t mean-“

“It’s alright,” I shrug. “Looks worse than it is.”

That’s a lie. My wrist is throbbing horribly. But I’m not about to tell Clara that. Not when she looks so horrified already. Her porcelain cheeks have flooded with colour. I should say something, assure her. But all I can think about is how beautiful she looks, even when she’s mortified.

“Hand,” a peacekeeper barks, seizing my bad wrist in his gloved hand.

I hiss in pain as he takes a sample of my blood. How hadn’t I noticed that we were this close to the square? It’s jam-packed. From here, it’s easy to tell the difference between the children with families and the rest of us. They all look well fed and impeccably dressed. We, on the other hand, shiver plainly in the cold. It has started to drizzle now. I can see the rain falling, illuminated by harsh Capitol spotlights. My worn hand-me-down dress is damp within minutes.

“You okay?” Clara asks, giving my good hand a discrete squeeze.

I nod, following the crowd into the fourteen-year-old pen. I never speak during reapings. It’s like my tongue turns to ash in my mouth. So I settle for staring wordlessly at the stage. Clara keeps a hold of my good hand. Within minutes, the huge screens either side of the Justice Building crackle to life. I glance up, observing the twelve-year-olds that hang on President Snow’s every word.

I don’t.

Instead, I shift my focus to the stage. I was right before: Annie Cresta _is_ here. She’s stood at the side of the stage, just beyond the reach of the cameras. The coat she is swamped in must be from the Capitol. The colour gives it away; it’s a shining, spotless white. Annie looks like she wants to tear it off. To her left stands an elderly woman. She must be Mags Flanagan, District Four’s oldest living victor. I watch, transfixed, as her wrinkled hand rubs small, reassuring circles on Annie’s back. What could she possibly have to be upset about? She won her games. She wasn’t down here with the rest of us.

Before I can think about it too much, the anthem sounds, shattering my focus. I feel Clara’s body stiffen beside mine.

“Good morning all!” Marina Walen’s voice reverberates around the square, every syllable piercing.

She’s wearing a bright green wig this year. It looks like rotten sea foam. I wonder which one of her stylists picked it out. Perhaps she’s unhinged enough to have selected it herself. 

“As usual, ladies first,” Marina beams, tottering towards the bowl.

It must be a precarious task for her, especially in heels so high. The rain is falling harder now, and I will her to trip. It won’t change anything, I know that. But I can’t pretend that it wouldn’t be satisfying.

“So exciting!” she chirps, digging a clawed hand around the bowl.

Marina drags the moment out, as she always does. It makes my stomach swirl uncomfortably. Then I see something out of the corner of my eye. Or rather, someone. It’s Finnick Odair. _The_ Finnick Odair is looking directly at me. As soon as I realise, his eyes flit away, seemingly uninterested. But I saw him. I saw him plain as day.

I want to turn to Clara and ask if she saw too, but Marina already has the slip of paper in her hand. She teeters towards the microphone, slow as a snail.

I’m not sure how, but the square grows even quieter. I can practically hear each individual raindrop slap against the cobblestones.

Then it happens.

“Wren Medler.”

Suddenly, it’s not silent anymore. It’s not silent at all. I can hear the sound of blood roaring in my ears. Every inch of my body goes cold. That was my name, right? No. It can’t be. It just can’t be. There must have been some sort of mistake…

So I don’t move. Not an inch, not a muscle. Some of the shivering children from Medler house turn their heads, recognising that one of their own has been chosen. And all I can think is that this never happens. Not in Four where we have no shortage of volunteers. I suppose that’s what I must be waiting for: a hand to shoot up from the crowd, desperate to take my place. But nothing happens. Nothing at all.

“Wren Medler, up you come,” Marina says, words coloured with irritation.

My fingertips have gone numb and there’s something thick lodged in my throat.

“Wren?”

Clara’s voice is a whisper, but it’s enough to get my attention. I look at her, not entirely sure what to expect. Her face is an alarming shade of grey, but her eyes are burning with determination. She squeezes my good hand tight.

“Don’t cry.”

I blink, suddenly aware that my eyes are brimming with tears. My body doesn’t feel like my own. It feels numb and heavy, impossible to control. But Clara has that look on her face – the one that can make me do anything. So, with great effort, I force myself to move. The walk is longer than I’d expected. Each step towards the stage feels like a battle, and I’m terrified that I’m going to keel over and faint. That can’t happen. I look pathetic enough as it is.

“Come on up, dear,” Marina says, offering me a clawed hand. 

I know that something is severely wrong with me when I take it. And, once I’m in her grasp, Marina refuses to let go, ferrying me towards the microphone.

“A round of applause for our first tribute!” Marina beams, betraying only the slightest hint of disappointment.

A reluctant applause swells beneath my feet. I attempt to peer out beyond the stage, but the lights are so bright that I’m half-blinded. I’ve lost track of Clara, there are too many people. When they glance up at me, I realise that I can’t make out any of their features. In fact, I can barely focus at all.

Marina gives a small cough, steering me off to the side. I’m deposited a hair’s breadth from Finnick Odair, so close that I can practically feel him breathing down my neck. And yet, I can’t muster an iota of excitement. All I feel is an overwhelming sense of dread. And under it, a strange sense of familiarity, as if I’ve stood here before. I grapple with the memory, conjuring up odd parts: faces in a crowd, a bouquet of roses, sunlight dappled on water…

Then Marina derails my train of thought, announcing the male tribute.

“Titus Cardew.”

My eyes flick to the male pen. There is no pause, no moment of hesitation. Titus emerges from the eighteen-year-old section at once. He must be at least three heads taller than me, with toned muscles that strain against his tight linen shirt. I swallow hard. There’s something in his poised strides that makes me certain he would have volunteered regardless of who’s name was pulled out of that bowl.

Marina is overjoyed, eagerly placing Titus in front of the awaiting cameras. This time, when the crowd bursts into applause, it’s genuine. I force my body not to sag in defeat.

“And there you have it! This year’s tributes from District Four!” Marina cheers, soaking up the atmosphere with apparent relish.

I take a moment to observe Titus. He’s even bigger up close, a monster of a boy. He will make a splash in the Capitol, I’m sure of it. When we are forced to shake hands, he doesn’t even look at me. I am beneath his notice; not appealing enough to be an ally, too weak to be a threat.

The cameras cut, the lights fade, and the square begins to clear.

* * *

From there, it’s a blur. Rough hands latch onto my shoulders, steering me into the Justice Building. I turn my head, twisting in their grasp, and try to find Clara in the crowd. For a split second, I think I can make out a flash of red hair. But before I can be sure, I’m guided away.

There’s a cooling breeze in the town hall. It smells strange, like waxed wood and old books. The soft, cream walls are littered with oil paintings. It’s nice. Way nicer than anything I’m used to. How many times have I wondered what the inside of the Justice Building looks like? And now that I’m here, all I want to do is bolt. I’m escorted to a large, empty reception room which is decorated plainly with a velvet couch. I perch myself on its edge, running my fingers over its surface obsessively. This must be where we say our goodbyes. Where I might be ripped from my District forever. _Who is going to visit me?_ I think, terrified that the answer will be no one. Clara will want to come, I’m sure of it. But that will require Ms Violet’s permission and a serious change of heart. Which is unlikely, given that she doesn’t have one.

I dig my nails into my palm hard, willing myself not to cry. The rain is falling harder now, pounding against the window in relentless sheets. I’m convinced that the glass will shatter at any moment. If I’m lucky, maybe a shard will hit me in just the right spot. Then I won’t have to go to the Capitol at all. I won’t even have to board the train.

“Wren!”

Clara’s voice sounds suddenly as she rushes into the room. I move without thinking, crashing into her. She doesn’t say anything at first, just wraps her slender arms around me tightly. We stand like that for a while, me clinging to her like my life depends on it. Then, when all we can hear is the sound of each other’s breathing, she extracts herself and holds me at arm’s length.

“We don’t have long, so listen to me,” she says, blue eyes shining brighter than usual. “You can do this, Wren.”

I scoff without meaning to. “You saw my partner, right?”

Clara shakes her head, frustrated. “There are twenty-two other tributes that can solve that problem for you. Not to mention the arena itself.”

I have to bite my tongue to resist reminding her that those twenty-two tributes will be gunning for me, too.

“I know you, Wren,” she continues, squeezing my shoulders tight. “You’re smart. You might not be able to finish off a career pack single handed, but you can outlast them.”

I search her eyes, looking for any sign of insincerity. I find none. Clara means every word she says. And I don’t know what to say back. I can’t pretend that I agree; that would be lying. But I don’t want to fight. So I settle for saying nothing at all.

“Wren? Do you hear me?” Clara pushes.

 _Yes,_ I think to myself. _I hear you. Although I wish I couldn’t._

“Wren!”

“Please, Clara,” I start, not wanting our final conversation to be a hopeless lie.

But Clara is having none of it.

“You can’t give up before you even go in, Wren,” she says. “You can’t do that to me.”

There’s anger in her words. No, not anger - betrayal. Suddenly, I’m itching to retaliate. To tell her that I’m the one heading to my certain death, not her, and that she ought to be a bit more realistic. But before I can open my mouth her chin starts to wobble. She’s sobbing in seconds. My words die on my tongue.

“Clara, I-“ I fumble my words, holding her tightly. “I’ll try, okay? I’ll try for you, I swear.”

I imagine our situations reversed – if Clara was the one heading to the Capitol and I was left behind. My stomach sinks at the thought. Medler House was difficult enough to endure _with_ friends. Without them, it’s not worth thinking about. I squeeze her tighter.

“I swear.”

I’m not sure how, but my voice doesn’t waver the second time around. And I’m sure that Clara knows I mean it because she doesn’t protest. We stand like this, tangled together, for a few more moments. Then Clara emerges from my arms and wipes her runny nose with the back of her hand. It’s the most unladylike thing I’ve ever seen her do. If the circumstances were different, I’m sure I would laugh. But then she looks at me hard and comes to some sort of decision.

Before I can blink, she leans forwards and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. Then she turns on her heel and heads for the door. As her boots make it to the threshold she stops, pausing for a fraction of a second. Her back is to me and her voice is unsteady, but I still hear her words.

“Don’t try. _Win._ ”


	2. The Train

My heart sinks the moment Clara leaves. It's impossible to ignore the vacancy in the room. It feels airless. For a moment, I'm tempted to follow her. But that's a stupid idea. There are two peacekeepers stationed outside the door, armed to the teeth – I would be caught in seconds. Still, I can't say that I'm not tempted. I have always been one of the fastest runners in my class, a skill perfected from years of dodging Ms Violet's grasp. I wonder how far I could make it before the peacekeepers catch up. Three steps? Four, maybe?

Marina disturbs me before I can do anything impulsive. She sweeps into the room, chattering endlessly about the train. Oh, yes. How could I have forgotten it? Every year the tributes are filmed smiling at waving outside its doors, as if they're heading on a holiday rather than to their certain deaths. Even in my misery, I understand the importance of this moment. I must smile. I must look happy. And yet, when I try, my face falls flat. All I can manage to give is a half-hearted wave, squinting through sheets of rain. Titus outshines me by a clear mile. He offers the camera an intense, brooding stare. At once, I understand his angle. Powerful and deadly. I know that nobody will be looking at me.

"Reckon he's done this before?" Finnick Odair asks, materialising at my side.

I jerk in surprise. He looks even more handsome up close, impossibly green eyes shining with amusement. I want to answer him, to do anything that will get him to stop looking at me, but I can't find words.

He bends down, drawing level with my ear. "What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?"

I recognise this voice. It's one I have heard countless times before during mandatory broadcasts from the Capitol. Every few weeks, Finnick's image fills our screens. Sometimes it goes on for days at a time. There's always something new: scandalous love affairs, racy interviews, wild parties. I find it all pretty tedious, but the other girls in Medler House never failed to swoon. Even Clara was guilty of it. Once, she cobbled together what little money she could find to purchase a poster emblazoned with Finnick's face. I had to stare at it every day for three weeks until Ms Violet tore it down.

"Suit yourself," Finnick breathes when I fail to reply.

An uncomfortable feeling of embarrassment swirls in my stomach. Now even my mentor will think I'm a fool. Well, at least I didn't do something stupid, like cry.

* * *

The train is even fancier than the Justice Building. If that's possible. I am overwhelmed at once, eyes scanning my surroundings eagerly. Velvet couches, mahogany tables, silver platters, gold plates. It's amazing. Still, I am determined to keep it from showing on my face. Because I know that's exactly what Marina wants. I can feel her looking at me, simply bursting to list each and every luxury at our disposal. When I don't ask, she answers anyway.

"Well, aren't you two lucky?" she says, beckoning Titus and I to sit at the dining table. "Very few people have the chance to ride these trains. In fact, I believe this is the latest model."

I stare at her, wondering if she wants an astonished gasp.

"Now, your chambers will be in the next carriage down. They come with king-size beds, advanced shower facilities, _and_ room service. What a treat!"

"Hear that Medler?" Titus starts, levelling me with a mocking stare. "You get to have your very own shower. You've heard of those, right?"

It's the only thing he's said to me so far. I'm so surprised that he's remembered my name that I barely register the cruelty in his tone. Although, when I think about it, he has a fair point. I look a mess. My cheap dress is falling apart at the seams, and my hair is stuck determinedly to my forehead in water-logged ringlets.

Marina tuts disapprovingly. "Now that's quite enough, young man. There will be plenty of time to argue in the arena. Now is the time for work," she breathes. "Although, perhaps you ought to go and clean yourself up, Wren. We will arrive in the Capitol first thing, and I can't have my tributes looking so… untidy."

Humiliation burns viciously in my stomach as I rise from my seat and march towards the next carriage. Titus doesn't even try to conceal his snigger. But what did I expect? Marina will be used to escorting career tributes, polished and eager. I'm sure she must be mortified at the prospect of dealing with me, a nobody plucked from District Four's community home. Regardless, I'm still fuming. My life is still worth something, isn't it? And even if nobody else thinks so, I don't deserve to spend my final days being mocked.

When I reach my room, I peel my dress off at once, throwing it onto the bed. Then I head for the _advanced_ shower. It turns out that Marina wasn't exaggerating. It takes me the better part of fifteen minutes to turn the thing on. But once it's on, it's amazing. We never have hot water in Medler House. I turn the temperature up until it borders on scorching and stand under the spray. It's half pain, half pleasure. I only emerge once my skin has been scrubbed red raw.

And, since nobody seems interested in disturbing me, I crawl under my duvet, trying to block out the events of the day. It almost works. Then, about three seconds in, the alien smell of the sheets gets caught in my nose. They're too fragranced, too artificial. I can hardly breathe without inhaling the noxious scent of roses. I fish my reaping dress from the edge of the bed and press it close to my cheek. It's an ugly old thing, still damp from the rain, but it smells like home.

I'm left undisturbed until the sun drops low in the sky. It sends a warm, amber glow about my room. Then there's a knock on the door, heavy and precise. I extract myself from the covers and reluctantly pull it open, facing the last person I want to see.

"I thought you'd be in here. Has Marina scared you off already?" Finnick Odair asks, side-stepping me and sauntering into the room.

He settles on the edge of my bed, looking amused. I let go of the door, watching it click shut. Then I turn and face my mentor, silent.

Finnick smiles, cheeks dimpling. "Cold reception, Medler. I thought I had a tribute, not an avox."

"Sorry to disappoint," I say, willing him to leave.

"It speaks!" He laughs. "You had me worried there."

God, is anyone on my team not a complete jerk? At least Marina treated me with some pity. But Finnick? He just smiles that Finnick Odair smile and looks at me like I'm the most amusing person in Panem.

"What are you doing?" I ask, when he stares for a fraction too long.

He raises an eyebrow. "Trying to figure you out, Medler. We need a strategy."

It's uncomfortable, standing still as he looks me up and down. Suddenly I'm struck with an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. Four always sent beautiful, athletic tributes. I am neither of those things. I am small for my age and skinny too. I wouldn't consider myself to be hideous, but I'm no Finnick Odair. I don't have sculpted or striking features. Unless a mane of thick, unruly curls counts. I shift under his stare, waiting for this torment to end. Eventually, after several painful minutes, it does.

"Cute," Finnick declares, leaning back in satisfaction.

I'm not impressed. In fact, I'm quite disappointed. Nobody ever called me cute. I'm short, yes. But I'm hardly sweet.

Seemingly reading my thoughts, Finnick elaborates. "Honey, you look about twelve at a push. You're not vicious enough to be threatening, or old enough to play sexy. Cute is your best shot."

My fists ball up at my sides. Cute doesn't win the games. All cute ever gets is a few sympathetic smiles from Caesar Flickerman. It's practically a death sentence.

But I don't say that. All I say is, "I'm fourteen actually."

I can hear the petulance in my voice as clear as day. It simply amuses Finnick.

"See?" he says, triumphant. "Cute."

It takes every ounce of discipline I can muster not to scowl. If I do, I'm afraid it might tip him over into open laughter. So I resolve to keep my mouth shut, soaking up every word he has to say on strategy. Being cute sounds relatively simple. It just involves lots of smiling and looking completely out of my depth. _Great_ , I think. I have one down already.

"You're from Medler House, right?" Finnick asks.

I nod, folding my arms across my middle. He seems pleased with that, explaining that the Capitol rarely sees anyone from a community home. He's certain it will make me a perfect underdog. I'm certain it will make me a perfect corpse.

"Any training?" Finnick asks, moving onto the arena.

"No," I say, alarmed that he can't tell that just from looking at me.

"Ever held a weapon?" he presses.

I mull it over. At Medler House it's my job to gut fish and weave nets, so I know my way around a knife. But that doesn't count for much. Especially when I know that I'll be dead ten times over before I can get to the cornucopia to take one.

"No."

"Ever been in a fight?"

Suddenly this entire line of enquiry feels like a joke. Maybe it is.

"No," I reply, voice laced with irritation.

Finnick raises his hands in mock surrender. Then he looks at me. Hard.

"Then what's that?"

I follow his eyes, landing on the curve of my wrist. Just below the sleeve is a strip of skin, bruised a deep shade of red. It's so vivid that I can make out each one of Ms Violet's fingerprints. I shrug, resisting the urge to yank my sleeve down.

"It's nothing."

"Nothing?" Finnick echoes. "It doesn't look like nothing to me. It looks like someone grabbed you pretty hard, Medler. Want to tell me who?"

I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Finnick Odair, darling of the Capitol, is concerned with what goes on at Medler House. You couldn't make it up.

"That's the first time I've seen you smile," he says. "You want to let me in on the joke?"

It's odd to see him be so serious, if only for a moment. Maybe that's why I speak without thinking.

"It's you," I say. "Why would you care?"

He looks at me with no trace of amusement. "Why wouldn't I?"

His words betray only the slightest hint of offence.

"Because you're Finnick Odair," I reply. "You're one of them. You don't have to."

I don't mean to insult him. I'm not stupid enough to deliberately aim my remark. I thought I was just stating a simple fact. But the words land hard in the space between us. There's an awful moment when no one says anything. Then his features close off, rearranging themselves back into that practiced expression of amusement.

"I guess you're right, Medler," He nods. "I don't."

It's stupid, but for some reason his words hurt. I remain silent for the rest of the conversation, nodding here and there until he finishes explaining our schedule. We're due in the Capitol first thing tomorrow. By the time Finnick leaves, my head aches.

Suddenly, the train feels like it's moving way too fast, hurtling forward at terrible speed. How could this be happening? Only last night, Clara and I were making plans for after the reaping. We were going to skive off work and sneak down to the beach. Sure, the punishment would have been severe, but neither of us cared. It would be worth it. But now? Now Clara is safe in District Four and I will never see the beach again.


	3. The Capitol

I have always known what the Capitol looks like. It's plastered on every screen in Panem. And not only when the games are on. They only last a week or two at best, depending on how long each tribute takes to die. So most of the contact between the Capitol and the Districts comes from mandatory screenings. They can be anything: interviews with victors, lavish celebrations in the city, or even reruns of old games. It doesn't matter, so long as our screens are filled. Over the years, I learnt to absorb mindlessly, never once imagining that I would see it in person.

The footage doesn't do it justice. How can it? The majesty of the Capitol is unparalleled. It glints and gleams like a polished diamond, surrounded on all sides by a clear body of water. I squint at it, trying to decide if it's natural or man-made. The water is impossibly still. But before I can make my mind up, our train pulls into the station.

Titus leaps out of his chair straight away, smiling and waving to the cameras. Reluctantly, I follow suit. Not because I have any desire to pander to the Capitol. But because I refuse to give any more credibility to Finnick's assertion that I am an avox. Still, it feels wrong. The station is packed to capacity with Capitol citizens. They swarm like wasps, colourful mouths agape with excitement. I can't help but notice how they look hungry. Ravenous, actually. It unsettles me. But when I turn to Titus, I see that he hasn't noticed. He just keeps on waving. After a moment, I follow suit, smiling until my cheeks burn.

Marina must be impressed by my performance because she gives me a quick peck on the cheek just before I'm whisked away to the remake centre. This is an important moment. It's the day of the Tribute Parade, when I will be shown off to the Capitol for the first time. The majority of the day will be spent preparing me for the cameras. I always thought that the process would be a pleasant one, nice and relaxing. It turns out to be the complete opposite. I am stripped naked upon arrival and scrubbed within an inch of my life. It's ridiculous, but I'm mortified. Nobody has ever seen me like this. It feels wrong. Not to mention that my prep team judge my body freely, as if they're selecting a cabbage at the market. Each whispered remark sets my teeth on edge. It feels like a month has passed before they finally declare that they are finished.

As soon as they leave, I allow myself to breathe and take stock of my new appearance. I still look like me, I suppose. Just much less hairy. I move closer to the mirror, pinching the skin on my upper arm. It looks polished… almost raw. Unsurprising, I guess, considering how hard my prep team had scrubbed. It felt like being flayed rather than being washed. I wonder how many layers of skin I am missing. One, two, three-

The door to my compartment slides open without warning, and through it walks a severe looking woman. I recognise her immediately. Fenwick Grove. She's been District Four's stylist for years.

"So, you're my tribute," she says, voice flat and unemotional.

I nod, appreciating how terrifying Fenwick looks up close. She's covered in a thin layer of green scales with black eyes and a pointed nose. I barely resist the urge to flinch as takes my jaw in her cold hands.

"Well," she starts, twisting me this way and that. "You're no Finnick Odair, but I do love a challenge."

I stand stock still until she removes her hand. As soon as that happens, I reach for my robe, suddenly feeling very exposed. But Fenwick catches my wrist before I get the chance.

"I don't think so, dear," she says. "If you want any sponsors, we're going to have to leave modesty at the door."

It's strange. For such a brittle looking woman, Fenwick's grip is deceptively strong. I wince, snatching my hand back. But it's too late. She's already seen it. The vivid purple handprint on my wrist.

"Ah, yes. I remember now. You're from that community home in District Four, aren't you?" Fenwick asks, voice unreadable.

I nod, shifting awkwardly on the balls of my feet.

Then something unexpected happens. Fenwick's severe face breaks out into a shark-like smile. Now that I think about it, she looks hungry too.

"That's a good thing?" I ask, feeling more like a meal than a tribute.

"A good thing?" Fenwick repeats, circling me. "It's nothing short of a miracle. Heaven knows you would never have pulled off strength or charm, but vulnerability? My dear you have it in spades."

"Vulnerability."

I taste the word, rolling it about on my tongue as Fenwick guides me to the mirror. Nobody has ever called me that before. It doesn't feel like a compliment. But the longer I stare at my not-quite-reflection, the more the word makes sense. I am not a meal, or a tribute. I'm a child. A terrified child.

"Why would anyone want to sponsor a vulnerable tribute?" I ask, unable to tear my eyes from the mirror. "Seems like a wasted investment."

It's not the smartest thing to say, but I don't care to censor my words. Dead girls don't need sponsors. Fenwick doesn't bother to reply. She simply sifts through various black costume bags as if I haven't spoken at all. I watch her in the mirror, thinking about last year's tributes. They were stunning, dressed as sirens. Each one looked beautiful and deadly. The crowd roared with excitement as their chariot pulled out into the City Circle. The girl was pegged to become the next big thing in the Capitol. A week later, they were both dead.

Fenwick's hand settles over a particular garment. As she pulls it free from its bag, I catch my first glimpse. It's not a siren, that much is clear. This dress is far softer. The fabric seems to move of its own accord, rippling to the floor in pale blue waves. I look closer, noting how each swell appears to reflect light, like sunshine dappled on water's surface. It's beautiful. I'm spellbound.

"You approve?" Fenwick asks, although it's hardly a question. She's seen my face.

Without a word or even a nod, my prep team rush back into the room. Perhaps my silence has acted as a signal. There are no whispered remarks now. They work in an eerie silence, agonising over each detail as if they're a group of surgeons completing a complex operation. Which, I suppose, they sort of are. Every now and then I crane my neck and try to catch a glimpse of my reflection. But they surround me on all sides. It's only when the final makeup brush is set down that I'm permitted to look.

The first thing I register is that I look remarkably like myself. I expected a complete change – to be virtually unrecognisable. And yet, I am still me. Well, me with better hair. It falls down my back in a sheet of jet-black ringlets. But that's not what catches my attention. What catches my attention is the dress. Because although it does not exude the blatant sex appeal of the siren costume, it is equally as revealing. If not, more so. The fabric is paper thin and coated with a gel that makes it look wet. It clings to my skin stubbornly. And, although it's pale blue, the material looks transparent in places.

"Do stop gawping, dear," Fenwick says. "Remember what we said about modesty?"

I tear my eyes from the mirror, swallowing any notion of protest.

"That we leave it at the door," I reply.

"Leave it at the door indeed," says Fenwick, herding me from the room. "You must give in order to receive."

* * *

A short elevator ride later, we arrive at the ground floor of the remake centre. It's set out like a gigantic stable, packed to capacity with chariots, horses, and tributes. I curse inwardly, aggravated that I didn't watch the reapings. If I had, I would know who I'm facing now. But I didn't because I was too scared. Too eager to hide. Well, there's no hiding now. Not with the career pack eyeing me like I'm a meal. I meet their eyes, frightened that if I don't, they will peg me as a weakling. Easy pickings in the arena.

They look bigger than last year, although that's probably just my imagination. The pair from District One are easy to make out. They're both tanned, athletic, and impossibly blonde. I look closer, seeing that they're sporting matching costumes which are encrusted with diamonds from head to toe. In fact, they look so identical that I'm certain they're siblings. Twins, even. Stranger still, both of them are grinning from ear to ear. It's as if there's no place in Panem they would rather be. By the time I make it to my chariot, I'm sure that they must be insane.

Titus isn't here. I scan the stables looking for him. It doesn't take me long to see that he's exactly where I thought he would be - talking to the other half of the career pack. District Two. The boy is monstrously big and his muscles bulge readily beneath his silver suit. When he steps into the light, I realise that his entire costume is made of a thin chainmail. It glints under the harsh lights. Without warning he guffaws at something Titus has said. Well, at least one of us is making friends.

I'm stroking my horse anxiously, willing the parade to start, when I feel a hand clamp on to my shoulder. _Great. Now Fenwick has come to scold me for getting her dress too close to the animals_ , I think, turning to face her. Only, it isn't Fenwick.

It's the girl from District Two.

"Pretty dress, Four," she says formally.

I repress the urge to jump out of my skin and commit myself to taking in her features. She looks older than me. Careers usually volunteer at eighteen, – when they're at their physical peak – so I would guess that she's around that age. Her hair is glossy brown and sits in a neat, unbroken line at her shoulders. Her features are elegant, cat-like. Especially her eyes, which are tawny and direct. When she looks at me, it feels like a vivisection. But, as intimidated as I am, I cannot deny that she's beautiful. Almost perfect, actually, if it wasn't for her most apparent feature. A large, raised scar that runs the length of her face. It begins at her left temple, curving wickedly under her eye, and ends just before the right- hand corner of her lips. Her stylist has chosen to accentuate it by painting a thin silver line on either side. Perhaps they mean to frighten sponsors into submission. It would certainly be effective.

"Thanks," I reply in my most confident voice. "It's a shame we only get to wear these costumes once. Seems like a waste."

The girl considers me for a moment before saying, "Oh, I don't know about that. They might let you wear it again at your funeral." She fiddles with one of my ringlets. "You'd be the best dressed corpse in Panem."

Her words are aimed to intimidate me. But oddly, all they do is conjure up the mental image of Fenwick hovering around my casket like a flustered bird. I can practically hear her complaining about the state of my hair.

My lips tug into a small, messy smile. "That's probably true," I say.

The girl looks half put out; half intrigued. Perhaps she meant to reduce me to tears. Or maybe she wants to pick a fight. Either way, I'm not giving her what she wants.

"I'm Blythe," she says suddenly, extending her hand.

When I take it, her grip tightens to an agonising vice.

"You ought to remember that, Four," she says. "It could come in useful when you're begging for your life."

I tug my hand free, backing into my horse.

"Got it?" Blythe asks, expression caught somewhere between a snarl and a smile.

I raise my chin, feigning confidence.

"Got it."

At that, Blythe turns on her heel and walks away. I wait until she's out of earshot before I release a shaky breath. Why did she come over here? Was she gunning for an alliance? Probably not. Fenwick's dress is impressive but it isn't _that_ good. I glance over at Titus. He's definitely in the career pack, judging from the way he casually tosses a joke over his shoulder to the boy from Two. The boy guffaws, voice deep and booming. It reverberates around the stables. Deliberate, I think. It's a signal. A signal that the career pack has been formed. I watch the tributes from Twelve flinch at the sound. Their shoulders curl forward and they stare blankly at their feet. The careers' plan has worked. They're suitably intimidated. I know because I am, too. Titus' success is a direct threat to my own. Just one more thing that might kill me. Not that he cares in the slightest.

"Nice outfit, Medler," he comments, climbing onto the chariot. His voice is casual, breezy, even.

When I join him on the chariot, I say nothing. I simply cross my arms and scowl ahead, silent as a statue.

"C'mon, Medler. There's no need to be hostile," he says. "For what it's worth, you scrub up well."

I'm not sure why, but this comment insults me more than anything. How much of a jerk could this guy be? He's just made an alliance that all but guarantees my death, and now he wants to compliment my dress. _Great,_ I think. _I'll try to remember that when you're murdering me._

"Look," Titus sighs, meeting another wall of silence. "I know you're pretty clueless, but there are going to be sponsors out there. _My_ sponsors. At least look like you're enjoying yourself."

I scoff, holding the edge of the chariot tight. "What's the point? Don't you want all the attention for yourself?"

"Obviously."

"Then I'm doing you a favour," I say. "One less competitor."

He looks at me like I'm the stupidest person alive. "You're not a competitor, Medler."

I feel like I've been punched square in the stomach. Because Titus isn't taunting me or being cruel. He's being honest. Which, right now, is far worse. Tears sting in my eyes. I throw my brain into overdrive, reaching for an insult to fill the silence. But before I can, the doors to the City Circle fly open. The crowd screams with pleasure as the first chariot rolls out. Then we start to move.

When we reach the central parade, the applause is deafening. I smile and smile until my cheeks burn, trying my best to stay upright. I've watched plenty of tribute parades, but I've never considered how fast the horses move, or how uneven the ground is. I make it to the final stretch of our procession before a sudden jolt from the horses unbalances me. I stumble, barely managing to catch myself. My hair has flown forwards, obscuring my face. And for the second time tonight, I'm not sure whether I should laugh or cry.

I chose the former, smiling sheepishly at the cameras through my curls. _Yes,_ I think. _Play it off as a joke. An endearing joke that I definitely meant to make._ I catch an image of myself projected on one of the many screens that surround the City Circle. Whatever makeup Fenwick has applied accentuates my eyes. I look like a baby bird peeking out from under its feathers. Vulnerable. Sweet. The crowd goes wild, shrieking with approval.

I follow their lead, smiling right back. My eyes fall upon a woman who fawns over me like I am her own child. The sensation is odd – and more than a bit twisted given the circumstances – but not entirely unpleasant. It's better than being mocked, at least, or ignored altogether. I do my best to make eye contact with as many people as I can. They eat it up, brightly coloured wigs bobbling with excitement. For a moment, I understand why Finnick spends so much of his time in the Capitol. They're treating me like a celebrity and I'm only a tribute. One of twenty-four. Would what it be like to be a victor? To be treated like a god…

Suddenly, my eyes are drawn to a group of men. They're older. At least triple my age, maybe more. It looks like someone has stuffed them into their candy coloured suits. When they look at me, I don't see adoration. I only see want. The one in the middle is practically salivating. He reaches into his pockets and digs out wads of money which he throws at my feet. I don't want to, but I can't stop looking, even as he mouths something vulgar in my direction. The other men follow suit, roaring with laughter and begin to hurl wads of their own. The carriage keeps moving.

We reach President Snow's mansion a short while later. And by this point, I'm completely unnerved. My smile falters, falling flat. Could those men see me now? Are they still watching? Waiting? The idea of it makes my skin crawl. And, despite my best efforts, I can't concentrate on a word President Snow says. All I want to do is leap off this chariot and hide. But that is not an option, so I grit my teeth and wait for it to end.

The second our chariot rolls into the tribute centre, I disembark. Marina can barely get a word of praise in before I'm gone, making a beeline for the elevator. I sag against the glass once the doors zip shut, feeling a mixture of anger and relief. The anger is mainly aimed for the men who looked at my body like it was a piece of meat. Although a fair share of it is reserved for me. I had just gained Marina's approval and just as swiftly thrown it away. Not to mention Fenwick, who deserved a "thank you" at the very least.

Still, I can't help but feel slightly better when I make it to my quarters. They're triple the size of the one on the train, and twice as luxurious. Normally, I'd busy myself with exploring my new surroundings. But right now, I can't summon the willpower. I simply wander aimlessly to the mini-bar and select an expensive looking bottle. I've never touched drink before. Never had the oppourtunity. Ms Violet did. A rumour went around that some of the older girls found her passed out in her office a few years ago. I turn the bottle in my hands, concluding that it can't be that bad if it'll help me sleep. I'm just about to break the seal when a series of sharp knocks sound from the other side of the door. I rise on shaky legs and open it, bottle in hand.

Finnick Odair stands in the hallway.

He looks uncharacteristically dishevelled. What was once a crisp, white shirt is now creased and loosely buttoned. His hair is just as messy, sticking out of place like he's been running his fingers through it all night. But it's his eyes that unnerve me most. They're not lit up with amusement like I'm used to. He looks furious.

"Finnick?"

Wordlessly, he plucks the bottle from my hands and sweeps into the room. Having no choice, I close the door behind him and wait for an explanation.

"Are you hard of hearing, Medler?" he bites out.

I flinch at the sound of it. "No?"

He places the bottle back in the mini-bar pointedly.

"Amnesia then?"

"No."

"No?" he echoes. "Then what was that?"

My brain takes a moment to catch up. He's talking about the chariots. About my storming off without so much as a glance in Marina's direction.

I sag against the door. "Look, I'm sorry," I confess. "I didn't mean to be rude to Marina or Fenwick. I'll apologise in the morning. I-"

"What?" Finnick interrupts, looking confused himself. "I'm not talking about Marina. I'm talking about _that."_

I follow his eyes, discovering that the "that" he is referring to is my dress. The fabric looks even more transparent under these lights. I can't imagine what it looked like during the parade itself. Still, a jolt of anger flares in my stomach.

"What's wrong with it?" I ask.

"What's wrong with it?" Finnick repeats, incredulous. "I told you to be cute, to play up your youth. Not to look like… like…"

He struggles to find the right word, so I fill in.

"Like you?"

Finnick's face falls as if he's been struck.

I don't like that at all, so I continue. "It wasn't my choice anyway. It was Fenwick's decision."

Finnick shakes his head. "You always have a choice, Medler. If anyone disagrees with that, point them in my direction."

I snort in disbelief. "And where is your direction, exactly?"

It's a fair point. Finnick has barely been around since we entered the Capitol.

He isn't happy with that. I can tell by way he pinches his nose in frustration. After a few tense moments, he speaks.

"Listen to me. I understand how things work," he says. "You don't. Once you decide who you are, there's no going back."

I frown, confused. I'm not deciding to be anything. Unless alive counts. I glance down at my dress.

"They liked me tonight, Finnick. They really did," I say, voice hopeful.

But when I look at him, it's evident that Finnick doesn't share the feeling. In fact, he looks like he's in pain.

"I know they did," he breathes unevenly. "Trust me, I know."

"So that means sponsors, right? It's a good thing."

Finnick shakes his head. "There are other ways to get sponsors. Better ways-"

"But Fenwick said!" I interrupt, sounding far too petulant for my liking.

"Said what?" Finnick asks, suddenly intrigued.

I feel my tongue go dry. Maybe I shouldn't go around disclosing Fenwick's words. She never explicitly told me to keep quiet. But the cool anger in Finnick's tone doesn't bode well.

"Said what, Medler?" He presses.

I shrug. "Nothing."

He stands, crossing his arms.

"I'm not leaving until you tell me. So unless you want to stand here all night, you better start talking."

I watch him evenly, meeting a look of grim determination.

"Fine," he says, sauntering over to the coffee table and popping a sugar cube into his mouth. "Your choice."

I manage to stick the silence for a few minutes. Then, seeing that he's deadly serious about staying, I relent.

"Fine," I moan. "She said that I would get sponsors if I look vulnerable. That people like that here."

Something clicks in Finnick's jaw before he turns his attention to answering me.

"Don't listen to her, Medler. She's not your mentor. That's my job, alright?"

I glance at him warily. Yes, Finnick has won the games before. But he's always had an advantage, always been beautiful. He never needed help. Not like I do, anyway. Maybe he just doesn't understand that other people can't always play fair.

"Look," he says, rising from his chair to stand by my side. "I know we didn't get off to the best start. But you're my responsibility now, okay? I need you to trust me."

Trust I can understand. But responsibility? That's an odd word. Did every mentor see their tributes this way? As such a personal burden. It seems exhausting. And even if they did, responsibilities can be abandoned. They often are.

I look at him, eyes searching. "Does that mean you'll get me back to Four?"

He pauses.

I correct myself. "That doesn't mean in a coffin or an urn. Can you get me back to Four alive?"

There's a deafening silence. Then Finnick slips his warm hand under my chin. When he's certain he's got my focus, he speaks.

"I can't guarantee anything," he starts.

My stomach sinks.

"But I will do everything I can to get you home."

His words are so sincere that anyone in earshot would believe him. Hell, I almost do. But then I remember what I saw in the stables under the remake centre. I remember the careers, the terrifying girl from Two.

"Why?" I ask, hating every ounce of desperation in my tone.

Finnick exhales softly. "Because you shouldn't be here, Medler."

I open my mouth, intending to tell him that no one deserves to be here. That slaughtering twenty-three children every year is completely unnecessary.

But all I manage to say is, "Promise?"

He nods, looking at me precisely.

"Promise."


	4. Training

Despite my best efforts, I don’t manage to get much sleep after Finnick’s departure. It’s too strange here, too unfamiliar. Every time I go to close my eyes, something distracts me. At first, it’s the ping of the elevator opening on our floor. I hear what sounds like half a dozen women pour out. If I strain my ears, I can just about make out their accents. Capitol. The strange, clipped vowels are unmistakable. Eventually, their high-pitched giggles dissipate. But I’m unlucky enough to share a floor with Titus, who has decided to watch reruns of old games in the living quarters. Every time the canon fires, I hear him whoop with pleasure. I wonder if he will do the same in the arena. It wouldn’t be surprising. 

By the time morning comes, it feels like days have passed. I’m almost grateful when an avox slinks into my room silently and places a folded uniform on the end of my bed. Training. This would be the first time that I get to witness my competitors in action. Not that I had any doubts regarding their skills. A shiver runs up my spine as I imagine the girl from Two. She looks deadly enough as it is. No part of me wants to see her with a weapon. Although, on that front, I suppose I have no choice. At least she’s not allowed to kill me in the training centre. Combat between tributes was forbidden. We would have plenty of time for that in the arena. I slip into my training attire on autopilot, trying to divert my thoughts from where I would be in three days’ time. It was certainly more comfortable than Fenwick’s dress. And at least we would all be wearing identical uniforms; I didn’t need to draw any more attention from the careers. 

By the time I meander into the dining area, my team has already arrived. Titus, somehow unphased by his lack of sleep, stuffs down plate after plate of pastries with ease. Marina watches him, prattling on about how exciting today will be. I repress the urge to scoff. Did she say this every year? And did anyone actually believe her? It’s more than likely that today will be a complete and utter waste of time. For me, at least. Unlike Titus, I didn’t have years of training to fall back on. I couldn’t waltz into the training centre and put on a show for the Gamemakers. The best I could hope for was that I didn’t embarrass myself in front of the competition. 

“Wren, dear!” Marina trills, spotting my lingering form. “What are you doing lurking over there? You don’t want to be late for your first day of training, do you?” 

I shake my head and school my features, slipping into the chair opposite Titus. Just as I begin picking at my food, I feel his gaze settle on me. It’s uncomfortably direct. 

“You should eat whilst you can, Medler,” he says, thumbing flakes of pastry from his lips. “You’re practically skin and bones.” 

This elicits a beaming smile from Marina who praises Titus for his concern. But I’m not so easily fooled. He doesn’t look concerned. He looks hungry. 

“Where’s Finnick?” I ask without thinking, eyes finding his empty chair. I’m not sure that I cared too much about the answer. I just wanted to divert the conversation and get away from Titus’ unwavering stare. But Marina’s odd reaction draws me in. 

“I believe he’s rather occupied at the moment,” she says, smiling as if embarrassed. 

Occupied? What a stupid answer. We were due to enter the arena in a matter of days, and I needed all the advice I could get. Not to mention the fact that Finnick had made me a promise. Surely a few minutes of his time wasn’t too much to ask. 

“Occupied with what? He’s our mentor, shouldn’t we be counselled?” I press. 

Marina simply turns an odd shade of plum and stares down at her plate resolutely. Titus glances between us before bursting out with laughter. I feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment. 

“Occupied with what?” I repeat, harsher this time. There was nothing I hated more than looking like an idiot. 

Titus struggles for air between laughs. “With who, you mean.”

And just like that, I put it together. 

My stomach churns uncomfortably, seizing with embarrassment. We were due to enter the arena in under three days. I could be dead in under three days, and Finnick Odair was out pleasuring some Capitol women? It’s absurd, but my eyes begin to sting uncomfortably. Was it reasonable to feel this betrayed by a man I’ve only known for two days? Probably not. But I can’t help it. I had sat through a lecture on modesty with him. I had listened to every bit of his advice, however hypocritical. I had allowed him to make me an impossible promise. And I had been stupid enough to believe him when he did. Clearly that was delusional. How had I managed to overlook years of watching the man primp and preen in front of the Capitol? Even a blind man could see it. Finnick Odair was only ever on one side – his own. 

“Not hungry anymore,” I mutter, excusing myself from the table. Not that anyone would be able to hear me over Titus’ laughter. He’s still going by the time the elevator doors close. 

I’m oddly relieved to make to the training centre. Only this morning, I had been dreading it. The idea of mingling with the other tributes was enough to tie my stomach in knots. But now it’s a happy alternative to enduring the company of my team. I had been expecting a tense silence, a room full of watchful eyes. But because I’m a late arrival, almost everyone is occupied. The careers flit from weapon station to weapon station, flaunting their skills to anyone that is watching. I glance up, seeing that the Gamemakers are observing them with vague interest. That works for me. So long as I am left alone, I’m happy settle for the lesser stations. The survival skills area is relatively clear of tributes, save from the pair from Eight. They’re both huddled over a log, desperately trying to set it alight. I begin to flick through a plant identification manual, watching their doomed attempts with thinly veiled curiosity. 

A few minutes drag by before the trainer speaks up. “Wrong. That’s not the way you were shown. Try again,” he says, voice laced with irritation. 

I watch the boy deflate as he tends to the log half-heartedly. The girl has given up altogether. It twists at something in my stomach and I speak up before thinking. “What good is a fire in the arena, anyway?” I ask. It sounds stupid. The merits of a fire aren’t exactly difficult to work out. But I’m not thinking about that. I’m thinking about the year when both tributes from Twelve were slaughtered after lighting one. They had done everything right, setting it in the middle of the day far from where the careers had taken up camp at the Cornucopia. What they hadn’t accounted for, however, was the smell. Or more specifically, how it clung to fibres of their clothing doggedly. That night, as they attempted to sneak past the careers’ patrol, the wind turned suddenly. It was a change engineered by the Gamemakers, no doubt. Either way, the boy from One caught their scent. They were dead within minutes. 

The whole gruesome scene plays out in my mind before the trainer replies. “That depends, Four. Would you like to freeze to death?” 

“No.” I say. “But I’d rather avoid advertising my location to every tribute in the arena.” 

The trainer shrugs, shooting me a disinterested look. “Freeze to death it is.” 

I set the plant manual down, still hearing the girl from Twelve’s screams. “I guess so.” 

Now that survival skills are a bust, I meander towards the knot-tying station. Finally, something I can do. Aside from gutting fish, I had also learnt to weave fishing nets in Medler house. It wasn’t my favourite activity, particularly when my fingers came away raw and stiff, but it was a lot less smelly than working with dead fish all day. The trainer at this station is much more agreeable, especially when he finds out that I’m well practiced in basic knots. We move onto snares quickly, and I’m just about making progress with one that would leave my enemy dangling from their feet when we are dismissed for lunch. 

Somehow, this experience is more painful than my brief stopover at the survival station. At least there I was free to leave at any time. Here, we are forced to remain seated for half an hour. The careers select their table immediately, assembling around it in a tightly packed circle. I glance over at Titus as he gorges himself on the seemingly endless food spread the Capitol has provided. It’s mesmerising, in a gross way, to watch him guzzle down piece after piece. He barks with laughter at something the boy from Two has said. A chunk of meat flies from his gaping mouth. 

I see that the brother and sister from One observe him with neatly covered distaste. As repulsive as he is, his physical prowess is undeniable. They will want him as an ally in the arena. The boy from Two follows suit, unflinching in the face of such a revolting scene. But then I spot the girl from Two, Blythe. She’s glaring at him with open disgust. After a few moments, she collects her tray and marches in my direction. 

“Is everyone from Four feral? Or did we just get particularly unlucky this year?” she asks, glowering at me as if I am somehow responsible. 

I see some of the other tributes look up with interest. The girl from Eight shoots me a concerned glance. I pretend not to notice. Now is not the time to show fear. 

“Well, nobody ever won the games with table manners,” I say, aiming to keep my voice as neutral as possible.

To my surprise, Blythe pauses, regarding me carefully. Then she settles down in the seat opposite, skewering a piece of meat with her fork. 

“I guess that’s right, Four,” she says. “But if he keeps that up in the arena, he won’t be winning anything. I’ll kill him myself.” 

I’m astounded. The way she says it is so brazen, so unchecked, that I begin to question her sanity. A flicker of concern must register on my face as she levels me with a mocking stare. 

“You scared, Four?” she asks, refusing to acknowledge the fact that Titus’ face is contorted with anger. 

“Aren’t you?” I reply, glancing over her shoulder as the pair from One talk him down. 

She quirks her lips indifferently. “Not all of us are useless, Four. They need me alive.”

I don’t say anything to that, deciding that there’s no point in conversing with someone that’s so clearly insane. Or stupid. I haven’t made my mind up yet. Everyone knows that the alliance between the careers is tenuous at best. They stick together for the most part of the games, but when it comes down to a handful of players, they’re the first ones to turn. In fact, a career is far more likely to die at the hands of another career than any other tribute. Blythe is an idiot if she thinks she’s exempt from that trend. I don’t say any of this, of course. I just keep my eyes on the time, forcing down mouthful after mouthful of food until we’re allowed to leave. 

The rest of the day moves quickly. Whatever hostility there is between Blythe and Titus appears to dissipate when they’re let loose on the weapons station. He goes for a trident, of course. She favours a wickedly curved sword. And I stay firmly rooted at the knot-tying station. Just as our first day of training comes to a close, the girl from Eight catches me. 

“Wren, right?” she asks, slipping into the elevator at my side. “I’m Tressa.” She sticks out her hand and shakes mine gently. 

It sounds bad, but I can’t help the flicker of irritation that buds in my stomach. I didn’t want to know anyone’s name. It would just make things harder in the arena. Still, I force myself to meet her eyes even as I try to purge my memory of her features. 

She must read something of the conflict on my face as she explains. “I just wanted to thank you for what you did earlier at the survival station. You didn’t have to.” 

Fantastic. Not only was she actively trying to speak to me, but she was actually being nice. It was vexing. 

“Yeah well, that trainer wasn’t exactly being helpful,” I return, willing the elevator to speed up. 

“Still. Thank you,” she presses, voice thick with sincerity. 

I keep my eyes glued to elevator doors, grateful when they slide open on the fourth floor. I practically run out, barrelling forwards blindly.

“See you tomorrow, Wren,” she calls, sounding oddly cheerful. 

It’s so unexpected that I can’t help but turn my head to look at her. Didn’t she understand that now wasn’t the time to make friends? Unfortunately, my body forgets to stop moving and I slam face-first into Finnick Odair’s chest. 

“Whoa there, Medler. You’re not in the arena yet, there’s no need to run,” he chuckles, smiling down at me. 

I remove myself immediately, furious at the idea of entertaining him. He was the last person that deserved to laugh at my expense. I move to side-step around him and make a beeline for my room, but he catches my elbow gently. 

“You okay, Wren? Did something happen?” he asks, voice low with concern. 

It’s fascinating to see how sincerely he appears to care. I wonder if he’s always been this skilled of an actor, or if he’s picked it up along the way. I myself have never been the best at lying, despite my best efforts. Maybe that’s why I can’t mask my resentment. 

“Yeah,” I say, reclaiming my arm from his grip. “Something happened.” 

His brows knit in confusion. Once he’s looked me up and down and found nothing amiss, he gives his head a small shake. “Do you want to tell me what?” 

“No, I would hate to take up your time. Marina says its very valuable.” I can’t tell if I’m impressed or ashamed of the venom in my tone. Perhaps it’s a mix of both. 

It takes a moment, but I can see the realisation dawn on his face. I can’t name the expression that crosses it exactly, but I don’t have to as Marina totters into view. 

“Ah, Finnick! You found her,” she says, clapping her gloved hands together in delight. She turns her attention to me. “Hurry along and get changed, darling. I don’t know about you but I’m positively starving.” 

For once, I follow Marina’s instructions without question, and speed towards my room without so much as a backwards glance. Once I enter, I have no desire to emerge, so I resolve to waste as much time as possible. After fiddling through almost every setting on the shower, I surface, reluctantly meandering towards the dining area. I’ve taken so long that everyone else is well into their main course. Marina tuts at me, rattling on about my poor punctuality, but I’m barely listening. I’m too busy avoiding Finnick’s eyes. We don’t exchange word until dessert arrives and the topic of conversation has moved onto alliances.

“The girl from Eight seemed pretty interested in Wren,” Finnick comments, much to Marina’s delight. 

“Oh, Wren! A little friend. That’s great news!” she exclaims, delighted. 

Friend. That’s an interesting word. I don’t think that many people actively wish for the demise of their friends. But then again, how would I know? I only had one. 

“Isn’t it just?” Finnick joins in. I can hear the smile in his words, and I know what he’s trying to do. He’s trying to goad me into a reaction. To get me to engage with him.   
I refuse.

“I’m thrilled,” I reply to Marina, as if Finnick hadn’t spoken at all. I’m sure he would have said something else, but Titus cuts in, reminding the table of his far superior alliance with the careers. For once I’m grateful to be beneath his notice. 

Dinner wraps up quickly after that. I leave the table as soon as Marina dismisses me, heading directly towards my room. But as I cross the living quarters something catches my eye. The tapes Titus had been watching last night. There’s not just one or two, he’s laid out at least twenty. Old games, by the look of it. I pick one up carefully, as if it could spring to life at any second. Should I be watching them too? I mean, I had little to no chance of picking up anything substantial in training. Perhaps if I could figure out a little bit more about how the Gamemakers worked, I wouldn’t be caught off-guard in the arena. 

“I wouldn’t recommend that before bed,” Finnick says, sauntering into the room. Only the slightest hesitation is noticeable in his tone. 

I clutch the tape tighter. 

“I’m serious, Medler,” he says, settling onto the couch. I pick the one furthest from him and follow suit, feeling the tape grow slick between my palms. At first, neither of us acknowledge the obvious tension. Then, with a rueful shrug, he looks me dead in the eyes. 

“What I do in my spare time is my business. You don’t have to like it.” 

Frustration builds in the pit of my stomach. 

“I don’t care that about what you do,” I lie. “I care about the fact that you’re supposed to be my mentor.” 

He looks at me as if I’ve hit my head. “I am your mentor.” 

“Could’ve fooled me,” I reply, picking at the edges of the tape. 

Finnick pauses, straightening up. “Alright then, let’s talk strategy. You already know what you’re doing for Flickerman’s interview,” he says, looking to me for confirmation. 

“Cute,” I reply, working to keep the disappointment out of my voice. I’m not exactly sure why I’m disappointed. Maybe it’s because I’m annoyed that Finnick has managed to avert any real conflict. Or maybe it’s simply because I wanted him to deny the insinuations that were made this morning. Either way, he carries on. 

“Now, tell me about training. Which weapons did you handle?” 

“None. I was at the knot-tying station.” 

“You were at the knot-tying station?” he repeats slowly. “All day?” 

I nod, avoiding telling him about my aborted attempt to spend time at the survival area. Somehow, I don’t think he’ll be impressed. 

“Well, you might want to revise that strategy, honey,” he says, disapproval lacing his tone. I pretend to ignore it. The less I say, the faster this will end. 

“Tomorrow, you need to hit the combat stations, get used to sparring.” 

I hate the idea immediately. It was a public humiliation waiting to happen. 

“It’s not about becoming an expert, Medler. It’s about figuring out how to move in a fight. If you pick up the basics, it could save your life,” he says, somehow following my train of thought. 

“Fine.” 

“Love the enthusiasm, honey.” 

I bury myself further into my chair. It takes every ounce of control I have not to retreat to my room. 

“You’re going to need to make friends. The girl from Eight was a good start, but you’ll need to find someone stronger.” 

Find someone stronger? I could barely hold a conversation with Tressa, let alone actively seek out alliances. And even if I got every other tribute on my side, we would barely stand a chance against the careers. 

“What’s the point? They all need to die if I’m going to win,” I say, eyes finding the pile of tapes. Could I really kill an ally if it came down to it? My stomach sinks in answer. Absolutely not. 

“The point? At best, they could end up saving your life or doubling your sponsors or both. At worst, they’re half-decent company.” 

I glance up at him and give a half-hearted nod. “Okay then.” 

He pauses. 

“I said I would help you, didn’t I?” he asks. 

“You promised.” 

“Exactly. And that’s what I’m doing now. You’ve got to trust me, remember?” 

I chew it over. It seemed to me that having to trust someone rather defeats the point. But I agree either way, if only to make things easier. 

I’m not sure that he’s entirely satisfied with my answer, but there’s no time to be sure as his watch begins to buzz furiously. Then, it’s as if the past few minutes never happened at all. He’s on his feet, smoothing out the wrinkles in his smart suit. How hadn’t I seen it before? The faint traces of makeup on his face or the way that his bronze hair was immaculately coiffed. Of course he would be busy tonight. I glance up as he gathers himself, heading towards the elevators. He’s halfway out of the room when he stops, turns around, and makes his way back to where I’m seated. 

“I’ll see you in the morning, Medler,” he says, gently ruffling my hair. 

Before I coordinate my brain and my tongue to form a response, he’s gone.


	5. Private Session

By the time I return to the training room, there is a grim determination set in my jaw. I had spent the whole night thinking about what Finnick had said. And, as much as it pained me to admit it, he was right. I had squandered my first day of training by refusing to move past the knot-tying station. The games weren’t won by tying knots. If they were, the whole of District Four would be tripping over themselves to take my place. But they weren’t, of course. They were safe, far from the clutches of the Gamemakers. I’m watching them now as I walk towards the weapons station. A handful follow my progress with vague interest. The rest are too busy observing Titus. He would be pretty hard to miss, skewering target after target with his trident. Initially, I feel the first buds of resentment bloom in my chest. But then I realise that I shouldn’t mind the distraction. In fact, I should be grateful for it. It means that nobody will be looking at me.

Safe in that knowledge, I allow myself to unwind, taking in the extensive collection of knives on display. It’s overwhelming. There must be at least forty different types, all razor sharp and deadly. After a moment, my eyes fall upon a familiar outline. The handle is grooved on either side, making for a firm grip. The blade itself is double edged and flexible, perfect for gutting fish. I should know. I’ve been handling one for most of my life. As soon as it’s in my hands, I feel the tension leak from my muscles. There’s something comfortable about wielding a knife. A pleasant feeling of control, as though you’re more than yourself. And it’s not that you would do anything. It’s that you could. There is power in possibility.

 _Maybe that’s why I always preferred gutting fish over weaving nets_ , I think, squeezing the handle tight in my palm. I’m just starting to run a mental checklist on whether I’ve ever seen this particular blade in the arena when I hear footsteps approaching from behind. For a few awful seconds, I’m convinced that it’s Blythe come to ridicule me. But it’s not. It’s Tressa.

“Hello, Wren,” she smiles, eyes skimming over the knives. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Have you ever used that?” She gestures to blade I am clutching in my fist. My first instinct is to ignore her, or flee, or both. But then I recall Finnick’s instructions. I needed friends. So, with great effort, I force my shoulders to relax and return her easy smile.

“No,” I lie, setting the knife down. Tressa didn’t need to know any of my secrets. Not before I knew hers, anyway. “Have you?” I ask. It’s an empty question, more of a formality that anything, but her response surprises me.

“These ones,” she says, collecting a handful of throwing knives. At first, I’m sure that she’s joking. But she doesn’t laugh. My features sober.

“You can use them?” I ask, trying not to betray my obvious disbelief. Tressa didn’t look like the type of person that could wield a wooden spoon, let alone a deadly weapon. She didn’t look sturdy and composed like the careers. She was plain and familiar, still too young to have outgrown the plumpness of her cheeks. And yet, I watch her sink all five knives into the targets ahead of us. Granted, some stray dangerously from the mark. But, on the whole, she’s landed every single one.

“See?” she says, cheeks ruddy with effort.

I’m dumbfounded, mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. By the time I regain my composure, she’s passing me a knife. “How did you do that?” I ask as she guides me towards the range. She smiles, almost shyly.

“I’ll teach you.”

This particular knife feels foreign in my hands. It’s too small. Too compact, yet oddly weighted. So it’s no surprise when my first throw swerves wildly to the left, meeting the ground with a metallic clatter. I hear the careers snickering, Titus loudest of them all. Tressa presses another knife into my open palm.

“Ignore then. Relax your wrist this time,” she says, as if we’re the only people in the room. I breathe in, visualising the knife arcing through the air. When I breathe out, I release, bracing myself for the inevitable laughter. Only, it never comes. My knife is buried deep in the target’s thigh. That’s nowhere near where I was aiming, but it’s hardly inconsequential. Maybe I couldn’t kill anyone at a distance, but there’s a slim chance that I could wound them. And I needed all the slim chances I could get. Tressa turns to face me, lips quirked in pleasure.

“Beginner’s luck,” she teases.

I can feel a smile itching on my face. “Who taught you?” I ask, before it can spread fully. I’m not certain exactly why I stop myself. Logically, Tressa has been nothing but nice to me since we met and she’s clearly a useful ally. And yet, something in me bristles at the idea of befriending her. Maybe it’s because I resent the fact that I’ve underestimated my enemy so severely. Or maybe it’s because I don’t see Tressa as an enemy at all. I’m not sure which is more dangerous.

“I taught myself,” she answers, voice uncharacteristically sombre. I watch as some internal struggle plays out over her features. Then she takes a deep breath and looks me straight in the eyes. “After what happened to my brother… I had to be prepared.”

Tressa’s words linger in the air between us. Her brother? How was I supposed to know who he was? I barely knew Tressa’s name until last night when she accosted me in the elevator. I’m about to voice these facts when an image swims to the surface of my mind. It’s the sixty-ninth hunger games. I was ten-years-old. That year, the arena was set in an abandoned city. And there was one death, one particular death, that stuck in my mind long after the final canon fired. I don’t remember his name. Maybe I’ve repressed it. But what I could never hope to repress was the memory of what happened to him. It was early in the game, a few days after the bloodbath. The boy from Eight had left empty handed and unarmed. By the second day, he was a little worse for wear, scouring the arena for any trace of water. I remember sighing with relief when it started to rain. He tipped his chin to the sky, opening his mouth eagerly. It’s only when the first drop sizzles on his tongue that I realise something is terribly wrong. He’s screaming in agony in an instant, hurtling blindly towards the shelter he knows he will find in the city. He isn’t the only one. Almost every player follows suit. I remember Clara clasping her hands over my eyes when the girl from Twelve collapsed a stone’s throw from safety. Her body convulsed in agony, as if burning from the inside out. She was already weakened from the bloodbath; it doesn’t take long for her canon to go off. She dies quickly enough. He doesn’t. I remember the cameras pulling in tight as he flew into one of the decaying structures. Luckily, he had the wherewithal to hold his jacket above his head as he ran. It was shredded to pieces, but his body was intact. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t know it, but the pair from One have followed his path. He only has a few seconds to catch his breath before they crash into the shelter alongside him. If he was armed, the boy from Eight might have stood a chance. But he wasn’t. The careers move instantly, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt with crazed determination. As they steer him towards the doorway, realisation dawns on his features. He fights back now, clawing like a wild thing. But it’s too late. The rain is falling hard, beating down on the concrete in an unbroken sheet. The second the careers inch him over the threshold, it’s all over. He lasted for the better part of an hour, crawling about blindly, screaming for help. He screamed and screamed and screamed until he choked on the rain. After that the only noise he could produce was a mangled, fizzing sound. There was no body to collect. He simply melted away. I didn’t sleep for weeks.

“I didn’t know.”

It’s all I can think to say, replaying his final moments over and over again in my mind. It’s woefully inadequate and I know it, but before I can say anything else Tressa shakes her head.

“We never looked similar,” she says, voice detached and matter-of-fact. She’s lying, of course. I can see the resemblance now. The soft angles of her face, the dirty blonde streaks in her hair. It was obvious.

“Anyway,” she continues, looking anywhere but my eyes. “I learnt how to throw straight after. Figured that if it ever came down to it, I didn’t want to be unarmed.”

We don’t speak much after that. There’s nothing I can say that will be of any use, and there’s nothing she can do that will erase the past five minutes. So we commit ourselves to throwing, retrieving, and throwing our knives again. It’s monotonous but I don’t put forward any suggestions to leave. I would rather take a knife to the leg than risk straying back into that conversation.

But, despite my best efforts, I can’t get the image of the screaming boy out of my head. Even after we are dismissed from training for the day. And the slimy, pea green soup that we are served for dinner doesn’t help. I thought I would be safe on our floor, far from Tressa’s mournful eyes. Yet somehow, I feel exponentially worse. I watch Titus slurp down mouthful after mouthful of soup with relish. I can barely manage to lift my spoon. My hands wont stop shaking.

“Wren, would you please stop shifting about? You’re making us all seasick!” Marina says, feigning politeness. Her words are clipped and I can hear the warning note in her tone, yet I am powerless to stop.

“Can I get something else?” I ask, struggling to block out the sounds of slurping.

“Absolutely not,” Marina replies, turning to frown at me. “A lot of hard work went into this meal. You don’t want to be ungrateful now, do you?”

She must take my silence as agreement, because she returns to her conversation with Finnick immediately. I glance up at her face as she speaks. There is a fine splattering of pea green soup just above the bow of her lips. It’s the same texture and consistency as the boy’s body after it had been exposed to the rain. She laughs at something Finnick has said, pink tongue licking her lips clean. I cannot supress my shudder.

“Please.”

Marina sets her spoon down on the table with a dull thud. “I will not suffer ungrateful tributes. It’s unheard of. Now, young lady-“

“I’ll take care of this, Marina.” Finnick cuts in suddenly, rising from his chair. “Come on, Medler.”

I take the oppourtunity to escape with both hands, gladly trailing at Finnick’s side until we’re inside his room. It looks practically untouched, as if he’s spent no time here at all. His Avox must be pleased, I think, settling down on the window seat furthest from the door. Finnick wavers, before perching on the edge of the bed.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

 _What isn’t_ , I think.

There’s a moment when I consider lying, or leaving, or simply not saying anything at all. But I was supposed to trust Finnick. Isn’t that what he’d said? And even if I didn’t, it hardly mattered. I could be dead in forty-eight hours. There’s no point in hoarding my worries to myself. So after running my hands over the plush fabric of the seat several times, I meet his eyes.

“I made a friend,” I say. He nods encouragingly, beckoning me to go on. “Her name’s Tressa. Her brother was in the games four years ago. He was the one-“ My voice breaks, faltering mid-speech. It’s all I can do to get out my next words. “The rain.”

I don’t see whether or not recognition has dawned on Finnick’s face. I’m too busy trying to muffle the sound of my tears. If I had more composure, I’m sure I would be mortified right now. Despite the many mistakes I had made since entering the Capitol, I was proud of the fact that no one had seen me cry. And now here I was, sobbing in front of Finnick Odair. What would Clara say?

I expect him to leave me to it, or simply to leave altogether, but he doesn’t. I vaguely register some movement on the other side of the room, and then he’s sat in front of me, tugging me into a gentle embrace.

I know there’s definitely something wrong with me when I fail to resist. In fact, I do the complete opposite of that. I cling to him like a drowning man clings to a piece of driftwood during a storm.

“It’s okay,” Finnick says, voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it before. It’s almost nice. “You’re going to be okay.”

That’s not strictly true, but I don’t argue. I just stay wedged between his arms and concentrate on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. He smells like saltwater and aftershave. It’s different than I had expected. Softer, somehow.

After a few moments, he speaks. “You want to come out, Medler?”

No. I think that’s the last thing I want to do. But then some semblance of dignity fires up in the pit of my stomach and I know that if I stay much longer, I’ll never be able to live this down. So, when I’m certain I’m not going to burst into a fresh flood of tears, I extract myself from his chest.

“Don’t call me that,” I murmur, swiping my tears away roughly with the back of my hand. Not that it will do much good. I don’t need a mirror to know that my face will be a blotchy mess.

“Call you what?” Finnick asks, still crouched on the balls of his feet.

“Medler. It’s not-“ I feel my voice catch as a sudden image of Medler house fights its way to the forefront of my mind. Clara’s there, huddling under the duvet in our room. Alone. My eyes sting painfully and my heart hurts. “It’s not my name.”

I watch him as he considers me carefully. He can’t know exactly what I’m thinking, but he must understand some small measure of my reasoning as he nods, smiling gently. “Wren. I think I can manage that.”

Then it occurs to me. We haven’t argued once. Usually, any interaction I had with Finnick was uncomfortable at best. Yet, for the first time since my name was called, I don’t feel so alone. Maybe that’s why I ask what I ask next.

“Do you think you could manage something else for me?”

Finnick raises his eyebrow in question. “Shoot.”

“Could you deliver a letter to someone?” I ask, hopelessness welling up in my stomach. Coming home wasn’t an option, but maybe it would be less painful if I wrote everything down. At least that way, if I died like Tressa’s brother, Clara would have something else to hold onto. Something the Capitol hadn’t touched.

“I didn’t say everything I wanted to back in Four. But maybe I can-“

“Wren,” Finnick says, holding up his hand to stop me. “I’m not going to do that.”

My heart sinks. Just when I thought we starting to get along…

“I’m not going to do that because you’re not going to have to write a letter. Okay? You’re going to say everything yourself when you get back to Four.”

Here we go again. Frustrated tears sting my eyes as I try to argue him into submission. I even play along, saying that the letter is simply a precaution on the off chance that something goes wrong. But Finnick disputes every word, steadfast in the belief that I’ll emerge unscathed in a few weeks’ time.

“Please. Okay? Please, Finnick. I don’t even have a token they can return,” I say, envisioning Clara opening a wooden casket to find my stiff corpse empty handed.

“You don’t have a token?”

I shrug helplessly. “I didn’t think I’d need one.”

Somehow, these are the words that get through to Finnick. He doesn’t try to shoot me down or insist that victors don’t need tokens. Instead, he gets up, rummaging through his drawers until he comes upon a small length of rope.

“Right handed or left handed?” he asks, working the rope into a series of complex looking knots.

“Left,” I reply, fascinated at how deftly his fingers move. He’s constructed a durable bracelet in seconds.

“Here,” he says, adjusting it around my wrist. “How does that feel?”

I twist the rope with my fingers. It’s too loose to chafe my skin, but just tight enough to sit properly.

“Better.”

Finnick smiles. “I’ll get it cleared with the Gamemakers tomorrow. It should be fine, it’s too short to fashion into anything deadly.”

I glance down at his handiwork. Even if wanted to weaponise the bracelet, it would take hours to undo those knots. And I doubt there will be much downtime in the arena.

“And Wren,” Finnick says, settling down in front of me. “When you get out, I'm going to want that bracelet back. Sound like a deal?”

I hesitate. This sounds like the end of a conversation. And I still haven’t convinced Finnick as far as the letter is concerned. But something about the way he’s looking at me makes me want to abandon all those concerns. It’s the same way Clara looked at me in the town hall.

_Don’t try. Win._

“Deal.”

* * *

The final day of training is worse than the previous two combined. Not because anything is particularly different – Tressa and I are still working together well – but because our private sessions will be conducted today after lunch. The knowledge hangs over us like a shadow. But neither one of us acknowledges it outright, visiting each station in relative silence. Every now and then, Tressa speaks up. Mainly it’s to ask me inconsequential questions about Four. I play along happily but fail to return the favour. I’m still worried that straying too far into Tressa’s private life will bring us back to the topic of her brother. Neither of us need that right now.

We’re called into an early lunch just after noon. From there, each tribute is summoned one by one according to their district number. I shift about in my seat uncomfortably, making a half-hearted effort to pick at my food. And it isn’t just the private session that twists my stomach up in knots. It’s the feeling of Blythe watching me carefully. I dare to glance up once or twice, meeting her eyes. She looks curious, observing from a distance. Titus is trying to speak to her. About something stupid, no doubt. She pays him no mind, focusing solely in my direction.

“Do you think she wants to kiss you, or kill you, or both?” Tressa asks suddenly, drawing my attention away from the careers. I’m laughing before I can stop myself.

“Oh, definitely kill me.”

Tressa considers it, picking at her own meal. “Are you sure? She’s been shooting me daggers ever since I sat down.”

I pause for a moment, considering her words, before concluding that Blythe probably glares at everyone that isn’t her.

“Better figurative daggers than literal ones,” I say, fiddling with my bracelet.

“Give her some time,” Tressa replies, eyes falling on my wrist. “You didn’t have that yesterday. Did you make it yourself?” she asks, reaching out and running her fingers over the knots.

“Finnick,” I supply, hearing Blythe’s name being called for her private session. It’s only when I glance back at Tressa that I see her blushing, looking at me expectantly. It pulls a reluctant sigh from my chest.

“Not you, too.”

“Can you blame me?” she replies, looking at me like I’m mad.

“Yes, actually, I can,” I return. She looks exactly like the girls from Medler house did every time Finnick’s face took over our screens. All red cheeked and wide eyed. Maybe I would have understood it once, even if I didn’t agree. But now? Now I’m starting to know Finnick, and the whole thing seems slightly inappropriate.

Regardless, Tressa keeps on smiling, squeezing me for information on my mentor. I offer her crumbs every now and then. He takes his coffee with four sugars. He doesn’t drink. He’s partial to a chocolate dessert. But that’s it. Just crumbs. It seemed a little bit counterproductive to mention the fact that he’s also dead set on getting me back to District Four alive. I’ve just run out of frivolous facts when my name is called. The knots return to my stomach immediately.

“Good luck, Wren. I’ll see you at the interviews,” Tressa smiles, patting my arm as I pass. I want to return the sentiment but my tongue has turned to stone. It’s all I can do to keep putting one foot in front of the other until I’m in the centre of the empty gymnasium.

The Gamemakers observe me with more vigour than they have all week. I can identify a few, I think. Seneca Crane is obvious. I’d recognise that beard a mile away. But he isn’t the one that’s drawing my attention. That is reserved entirely for the older man that stands behind him. A name forms in my mind. Plutarch Heavensbee. He was Head Gamemaker four years ago which means he was in charge of the games that murdered Tressa’s brother. Suddenly I know exactly what I’m doing.

Without warning, I cross the gymnasium, dragging a dummy into the centre of the space. After that, I grab my fishing knife. It slots into my palm with ease, and that pleasant feeling of power thrums through my veins. I make sure that I’m meeting Plutarch’s eyes directly when I make the first incision. I had never practiced on a dummy like this before, so I’m almost caught off guard when the skin splits like real flesh, releasing a bloody mess of entrails. My lunch threatens to make a reappearance, but then I hear that unspeakable fizzing sound again and force myself to continue. By the end of the fifteen minutes, I’m slick with sweat and blood, panting from the exertion. But the dummy is picked clean, it’s insides lying in neat little piles at my feet. I cannot gauge Plutarch’s reaction. His face betrays nothing. But Seneca Crane gives me a small, satisfied smile.

“You are dismissed.”

I’m almost proud when I drag myself all the way to the fourth floor before throwing up.


	6. The Interview

Looking back on it, I’m annoyed that I didn’t savour the horrified look on Marina’s face when I emerged from the elevator slick with blood. It wasn’t my fault, really. I’d been distracted at the time, running to empty the contents of my stomach into the nearest bin. But now that I’ve cleaned myself up and changed into a fresh set of clothes, I can’t help but regret it. I imagine that my prep team will be less than impressed with the state of my nails. There is a stubborn layer of dried blood that refuses to come loose, no matter how hard I scrub at it. Still, I continue to try, picking at my nail beds all the way through dinner until I find myself planted on the couch waiting for our training scores to be released.

“You know, nobody has ever been awarded a score of twelve before… Today might be our lucky day!” Marina trills, clutching a delicate looking flute of champagne between clawed hands.

_I_ _t’s a bit premature to celebrate_ , I think. Although, she’s definitely not referring to me. I glance over at Titus, watching his chest puff out in arrogance. He’s drinking, too. He’s been drinking all night. I’m tempted to follow suit, if only to dull the unease bubbling away in my stomach, but one look from Finnick lets me know that it’s a bad idea. We have our interviews tomorrow and how well we present ourselves to the Capitol will determine our sponsors in the arena. Being hungover is the last thing I need, so I grit my teeth and wait for the programme to begin.

First, they show a photo of the tribute, then flash their score below it. Marina nods her head approvingly as the twins from One, Lux and Jewel, are awarded a matching pair of nines. Then comes the boy from Two, Mason. He scores an eight. But I’m not paying too much attention to him, my focus is reserved solely for Blythe. Her picture looks just as terrifying as she does in reality, scar curved wickedly under her eye. She scores an eleven. I am unsurprised but oddly curious. An eleven was rare, even for a career. What did she show the Gamemakers in that training room?

“Here we go,” Marina breathes as Titus’ image takes over our screens.

He is awarded an eight.

The announcement lands hard in the middle of the room. Nobody speaks, not even Marina. I dare to glance over at Titus as he processes the news. His features contort, twisting into something beyond rage. Whatever he’s thinking, he can’t quite articulate it, settling for disjointed mutterings. His fist tightens around the stem of his glass until it shatters. This, at least, spurs Marina into action. She totters over to him in heels, saying something about how unreliable scores are anyway, and how he will undoubtedly prove the Gamemakers wrong in the arena. But then, before she can finish making her assurances, Titus’ face drops once more. I follow his eyes to the screen, meeting my own. The number eight is flashing beneath my picture.

Eight!

I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding and turn to my prep team who are half shocked, half elated. After a moments pause, they start cheering, clapping me on the back merrily.

“How is that possible?” I ask nobody in particular, unable to process what’s just happened.

“Well, aren’t you just full of surprises,” Finnick says, coming to stand behind where I’m settled on the couch. He ruffles my hair and I can hear the smile in his voice.

“I must be,” I reply, incapable of tearing my eyes away from the flashing number.

When the corner of my mouth begins to turn up in a smile, it’s not because my prep team are looking at me with pride, or because Finnick’s wild assertions that I will survive are looking slightly more realistic. It’s because I know that Clara will be watching this broadcast too. She’ll know that an eight is a career score, that I haven’t given up completely. And if I can secure a few sponsors and make good on my alliance with Tressa, maybe I’ll have a shot at making it back to Four in one piece.

It’s like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Without thinking, I glance over to where Marina is seated, smile fixed firmly on my face. Only, I don’t meet her eyes. I meet Titus’.

It all happens in a fraction of a second. Titus leaps up from his seat on the couch and lunges at me with a bloodied shard of glass.

“You’re a fucking cheat, Medler!”

I’m vaguely aware of hearing Marina shriek in horror, but I’m powerless to do anything. I just freeze in place, bracing myself for impact. When there is none, I open my eyes. The scene playing out in front of me is so bizarre that I can scarcely believe it’s real. Finnick has tackled Titus to the ground and is in the midst of wrestling the shard of glass from his hand. Although they’re about equal in size, Finnick has greater skill in combat. After all, he did win his games. He disarms Titus in seconds, keeping him pinned to the ground until a pair of peacekeepers show up and escort him away.

So much for this night being a success.

“Good heavens! Finnick, darling, are you alright?” Marina asks, white with terror. I can’t imagine that many of her tributes have tried to kill each other before stepping foot in the arena.

Finnick dusts off his immaculate white shirt as he stands. “He’s just had too much to drink, that’s all.”

_That’s all?_ I think, recalling the fury that played out over Titus’s features. It didn’t have anything to do with alcohol. It was like something behind his eyes had snapped. And I know at once that I’m in big trouble in the arena. Marina doesn’t seem to grasp this fact, though. She simply skirts around the plush couch and sends me off to bed.

“You’ve got a big day tomorrow, Wren. I’m sure Fenwick and your prep team would advise a healthy dose of beauty sleep!” she says, tugging me to my feet.

I don’t look at any of them for approval. I simply wander over to Finnick, checking him up and down for any sign of injury.

“You okay?” I ask, noting that the left side of his jaw looks a little swollen, as if Titus managed to get a blow in.

Finnick nods his head, looking at me as if I’m being foolish. “No need to worry, honey. I’ll live.”

His voice is different in front of this audience. It’s the same voice I’m so used to hearing on endless mandatory broadcasts from the Capitol. I hate it. And yet, there’s something behind his eyes that’s different. Like the Finnick that I sobbed my heart out to yesterday.

“Thank you. For what you did,” I say, gesturing to the empty space Titus had been dragged from moments before.

“No need, Medler. I’m your mentor, that’s my job.”

“Well, thanks anyway.”

I turn before he shrugs me off again and meander towards my room. If I strain my ears, I can just about make out Marina’s voice. She’s talking about Titus and, by the sounds of it, she’s horrified. That’s fair, I suppose. I’m feeling pretty horrified myself. _I wonder who will kill me first, Titus or Blythe?_ The question consumes me, rolling about in my skull as I crawl into bed. In just over a day, I could have my answer. After all, everyone is free game in the arena. And there will be no Finnick to spring to my defence. _Titus or Blythe? Titus or Blythe? Titus or Blythe?_

* * *

That night, the only dreams that come to me are nightmares. I feel Titus plunging a shard of glass into my middle over and over again. I see Marina fussing over my corpse, complaining that my complexion looks awful. I hear Blythe’s disembodied laughter, Claudius Templesmith’s voice, Clara screaming. Just as black spots close over my vision, I see Finnick’s sea-green eyes peering out at me through the darkness. Then, before I can let go, it starts all over again. In other words, I don’t sleep well. By the time morning comes, I’m tangled in my sheets, staring blankly at the wall opposite my bed. I cannot find the will to move. Then an Avox appears, likely sent by Marina to drag me out of bed. She’s different to the ones I’ve seen so far. Older, maybe. Perhaps she’s dealt with tributes like me before, because she’s at my side in an instant, peeling my sweaty sheets away with ease. After a moment, she directs me to sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. Although she cannot speak, her eyes are kind, creased with concern. She places her worn hand on top of mine and gives it a quick squeeze. I resist the impulse to cry, knowing that it will simply make things worse.

“Thank you.”

The reception I receive at the breakfast table is decidedly less friendly. Marina tuts at me on sight, launching into a lecture on punctuality. Finnick is nowhere to be seen. I’m tempted to question this, but then remember what happened last time I enquired into Finnick’s personal schedule. I do, however, raise my eyebrows at Titus’ empty chair.

“Is he late too?” I ask, feigning nonchalance. Inside, I’m begging every power in Panem for Titus to have been removed. Replaced by another tribute maybe? Marina simply frowns.

“Following the events of last night, we believe it’s in your best interest to be trained alone.”

“Alone,” I echo, buttering my toast. I can’t seem to keep the knife from shaking.

“That’s what I said. Now, let’s not dwell on such horrid business. Today is a very important day and you’re already running late. Come along!” she says, rising to her feet suddenly.

I swallow a mouthful of toast. “I’m eating.”

Marina sighs, plucking what’s left of my breakfast from my hands. “And now you’re finished! How convenient.”

I set her a filthy look and look and rise from my seat, trailing behind her until we reach the sitting room. She must be able to feel my eyes burning a hole in her back as she speaks.

“Come now, there’s no need to fuss. That bread would’ve had you bloated in no time. See? I’m here to _help_ you, darling.”

What occurs in the next four hours certainly doesn’t feel like help. It feels like torture. Marina is relentless, forcing me to walk up and down the room in heels until I’m sure my feet have blistered. When it’s clear that walking isn’t my forte, she moves onto smiling. Apparently - although I am not naturally blessed in this department - I show some degree of potential. My cheeks are burning by the time we finish. Then comes posture. Astonishingly, this is the first subject that I excel in. In fact, Marina can’t seem to stop beaming at the perfectly straight line of my back. She doesn’t know that it comes from years of having a ruler cracked across my shoulders for slouching in Medler House. Perhaps if she knew that, she wouldn’t be quite so enthused. But it was uncommon for Marina to shower me with praise, so I keep my mouth shut, waiting for the four hours to pass.

“Well, I for one can’t believe the progress you’ve made. Perhaps tonight’s interview won’t be a disaster after all!”

I try to take her words as a compliment rather than an insult.

By the time I make it to Finnick for content training, I’m exhausted. And, by the looks of it, he isn’t feeling great either. When I perch in the chair opposite him, I scan his face. He looks like he hasn’t slept a wink. That makes two of us, I guess.

“It didn’t bruise,” I comment, eyeing the part of his jaw that was swollen last night.

He shrugs, running a hand through his copper hair. “I told you to stop worrying about me, Medler.”

“And I told you to stop calling me Medler,” I return, folding my arms across my chest.

He smiles at that. A real smile. “I suppose we’re both pretty bad listeners then.”

“It’s mainly you,” I huff, trying to cover the smile that’s creeping into my own voice.

What’s happening? One moment, I’m certain that I dislike Finnick as much as I dislike everyone in the Capitol. The next, it feels like he’s the only person in Panem that I can trust. And I don’t form attachments easily. Never have. It’s the reason that Clara is my only friend from home, and the reason that I’m terrified of warming to Tressa. Yet, something draws me towards Finnick. There’s a bond here. A bond that started the night he handed me that woven bracelet.

“You alright, Wren? You spaced out on me for a second there,” he says, eyes quizzical.

I rearrange my features quickly, slipping into a carefully neutral expression.

“I’m good,” I lie. “So, are you going to make me walk around in heels for four hours, too?” I ask, happy to change the subject.

Finnick shakes his head. “You don’t need to worry about that, kid. You’re not wearing heels tonight.”

He stands and crosses the room, collecting a black costume bag. “After what happened at the chariots, I had a word with your stylist,” he says, unzipping it. “What do you think?”

My stomach drops. This dress is poles apart from my last one. It’s not sultry or suggestive. It’s the complete opposite. It looks a dress made for a doll, complete with puffed sleeves. Instead of radiant, iridescent colours, it’s a buttery yellow. Soft, innocent. The material is sturdy and opaque with a hem that falls just below my knees. I can scarcely believe that Fenwick has created something so tame. I imagine that each stitch would have killed her.

“Well,” Finnick prods, swinging the hanger from his finger.

I don’t mince my words. “It’s made for a child.”

“You are a child.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t think that matters to them. They’re sending me to the arena either way.” 

Finnick sighs, setting the dress down carefully. “I know that.”

“So why humiliate me? I thought the whole point of Caesar’s interview was to stand out?”

“Exactly,” Finnick says, looking at me as if this whole plan is obvious. When I don’t cotton on, he continues. “Look, every tribute out there will be gunning for sexy, or ruthless, or beautiful. You’ve got something different. You’re fourteen, you’re small, you’re sweet-“

“ _Sweet?”_

“Yes, sweet. So you give the audience something to root for. You’re not just Wren Medler from a community home in Four,” he says and I frown.

“That’s exactly who I am.”

“No, not anymore. Now you’re an orphan from Four who’s been plucked from obscurity and dropped into the heart of the Capitol. They’re your family now and you’re their favourite daughter.”

I can’t help it when my face curls in disgust.

“They’re placing bets on whether I live or die! They’re _not_ my family.”

“I know that! But it’s a show, Wren. You’ve got to pick a character and stick to it.”

I hesitate, unsure. “What if I’m a bad actor?”

Finnick leans forward and lowers his voice. “They can’t tell. Trust me.”

I hang my head, trying to weigh up exactly what he’s saying. He has a point, I guess. All the other angles are predictable, tired even. If coming from Medler house was an advantage, then shouldn’t I take it? It’s only Clara’s words that spur me on. I was supposed to do everything in my power to get back to her, whatever the cost. I can only hope that she sees through whatever performance I put on tonight.

“If I do this, it’ll help me in the arena, right?” I ask, glancing between Finnick and the dress.

He nods. “Pull this off and you’ll have sponsors coming out of your ears.”

I take one last look at the hideous dress.

“That decides it then.”

* * *

I approach the rest of the day with a quiet determination. I don’t complain when Fenwick and my prep team agonise over arranging my curls in painfully tight ringlets. I don’t say a bad word to Marina, even when she winces at the sight of my dress. I don’t even shoot Titus a dirty look when we enter the elevator to the Training Centre. I’m silent as a stone, rehearsing my words over and over again in my head. _Capitol, family, sponsors. Capitol, family, sponsors._

The interviews will take place on a stage that has been constructed just outside the Training Centre. All twenty-four of us sit in a big arc throughout the interviews. In a few moments, Caesar Flickerman will take to the stage. Then the show will begin and each of us will have three minutes to turn a few hearts in our favour. No big deal.

I catch a glimpse of Tressa’s dress as she turns to smile at me. It’s a peach coloured satin number. She looks beautiful. Far better than I do, not that it would be difficult. I shrink into my seat, nodding lamely in her direction. I try to smile, but it looks more like a grimace. The pair from One are draped in diamonds, glittering under the studio lights. Blythe is dressed in a deep, crimson gown. It’s strapless and sophisticated. She doesn’t look like a trembling child; she looks like a woman. No, she looks like a victor. Suddenly I want to rip off my own dress and demand Fenwick rustle up something better, something that doesn’t make me look like an infant. But it’s too late, Caesar Flickerman has already taken to the stage.

Like Blythe’s gown, his suit is a crimson. Only, he doesn’t look beautiful. He looks hideous, as if he’s bleeding to death. Regardless, he warms up the audience with a few jokes, bleached teeth winking under the beaming spotlights. Then, as suddenly as the show started, the interviews begin. The female tribute always precedes the male, so Jewel takes to the stage first. My heart is pounding as she answers her questions. With a headful of glossy blonde curls, I expect her to play up the sexy angle. Only, she doesn’t. She takes every oppourtunity to emphasise the fact that she’s come here with her twin brother. Caesar praises her enthusiasm for the games but asks the question we’re all thinking.

“And why, Jewel, did you volunteer alongside your brother? Surely you know that only one victor can be crowned?”

Jewel savours the question, allowing a single tear to run down her cheek.

“Well, Caesar, the answer is simple. My brother and I grew up watching the games together. We’ve always known that we were going to volunteer. It’s an honour to be amongst you all. And, if one of us can win, then the other’s sacrifice won’t have been in vain. It’s our duty to Panem to try.” She pauses. “It’s our duty to each other.”

The audience bursts into applause. She’s played it perfectly. A doomed set of patriotic twins? I’m sure that the Gamemakers are tripping over themselves with glee.

I can barely pay attention to the next round of tributes. I’m too busy trying to stop myself from shaking. What was this, stage fright? I dig my fingernails into my palm tightly. _Not now._ I force my attention back towards the stage. Blythe is there, standing tall. She refuses to take the seat Caesar has offered, preferring to glower at the audience from her full height.

“So, Blythe, I’ve heard a few people asking about your scar,” Caesar says. It would be pretty hard to miss.

“Oh,” she replies, sounding bored. It’s almost impressive how little she seems to care about the audience, the cameras, even Caesar himself. He presses on regardless.

“Oh, indeed. Now I imagine there is an interesting story behind this… this look,” he says, trying valiantly to pry the words from her lips.

She doesn’t budge. “There sure is, but it isn’t half as fascinating as all the other scars I’m going to inflict tomorrow.”

The audience leans forwards, rapt with attention. So this is Blythe’s angle. Dead eyed and deadly.

She ponders for a moment, before letting a cold smile slip over her features.

“I think I’ll start with Four over there,” she says, pointing clearly in my direction. “Or maybe Eight. I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

I freeze in my chair, eyes widening in terror. This has never happened before. Tributes never talk about other tributes, let alone threaten them. We only had three minutes; it was foolish to waste them on other people. Still, Blythe is unconcerned. I search the crowd frantically for Finnick. There’s nothing he can do, but I’m in desperate need of a friendly face. Before I can spot him, a secondary spotlight beams in my direction. I must look like a rabbit in headlights.

“Well,” Caesar starts. Even he seems caught off guard. “Most of my guests don’t disclose their plans so openly, but I admire your honesty.”

“Most of your guests are idiots,” Blythe returns, sauntering off the stage before her buzzer goes off.

Caesar is stunned. I am stunned. I imagine the whole of Panem is stunned. But Blythe has already blown us all out of the water. Win or lose, nobody is going to forget her now. She seems to be more than aware of this fact as she sends me a wink before settling back into her seat. I cannot help but shudder.

To distract myself, I pour every iota of my concentration into counting the crimson gems on Caesar’s suit. Anything is better than what I actually want to do, which is bolt for the elevator and bury myself under my duvet for the rest of time.

And then they’re calling Wren Medler, and I have no choice but to force myself to my feet and walk towards the stage. My legs feel as unsteady as they did that day in the reaping square, and I’m convinced that I’m going to keel over and fall. But Caesar grabs a hold of my forearm, gently directing me into a plush, blue chair. Well, if Finnick wanted to see a vulnerable child, he certainly got one. I’m sure the tremors running through my body are visible all the way from District Thirteen.

“So, Wren, I’m sure that you were as surprised as we were when a certain tribute from District Two made some… interesting comments about you tonight,” he starts, looking at me with pity in his eyes.

I don’t need pity. I need sponsors. So I pull myself together as best I can and manage a shrug. Although, if I’m being honest it looks more like an involuntary jerk.

“I’m not surprised, Caesar,” I say, straightening out the fabric of my dress. That’s a lie, I’m completely astonished. But I’ve captured Caesar’s interest now.

“Oh?”

“It’s the Hunger Games,” I say. “Isn’t killing people sort of the whole point?”

It’s macabre, and completely against the grain of how I’m supposed to be presenting myself, but nobody could have predicted Blythe’s curveball. Not even Finnick. And I’d rather be bold than spineless if those are the only options.

Caesar laughs and I’m vaguely aware of audience members joining in too.

“Well, that’s certainly one way to look at it,” he says. “But enough about other people! We want to know about you. Tell me about the moment you heard your name called out on reaping day. How did you feel?”

_Awful? Hopeless? Terrified?_

I think back to Finnick’s advice, finding his face in the crowd. He sends me a nod. Now is the time.

“Happy,” I say, putting Marina’s smiling practice to good use.

“Happy? I do recall you appeared to be rather shocked,” Caesar pries.

_Shit._ I hadn’t considered the footage of the reaping. I’d never watched it back but you can be sure that every person in Panem watched me freeze up in terror.

I think fast, ducking my head in embarrassment. Yes, embarrassment is better than fear. “You saw that? Oh, that’s so embarrassing!” I stall, considering how to steer the conversation into safer territory.

Then it comes to me.

“Can I be honest with you, Caesar?” I ask, as if we are the only two in the room, which is ridiculous considering that my every word is being projected throughout Panem.

“Of course,” Caesar replies, crossing his hand over his heart.

I breathe in. “I never expected this. I’ve always watched the games, the Capitol. I never once expected to be here. But ever since my name came out of that bowl-“ I cut off, sniffling softly.

Caesar hands me his crimson pocket square. “Do go on, Wren,”

I take it gratefully, patting my dry eyes. “I’ve never had a family before. I’m from a community home,” I say, allowing a hush to fall over the crowd. “So, ever since my name came out of the bowl, I’ve been allowing myself to hope.”

“To hope for what?”

“To hope that I can find a family here… with all of you.” I let the words hang in the air for a moment before shaking my head. “I’m sorry, you must think I’m ridiculous,” I start, but Caesar cuts me off with a wave of his hand.

“Absolutely not, Wren Medler!” he says, turning to face the audience. “Do we think that’s ridiculous? Do we think that the lovely Wren Medler is being ridiculous?”

The audience shake their heads vehemently, hollering words of reassurance. I smile gratefully, beaming into the crowd. Maybe this is what Fenwick meant by vulnerable. Available. Mouldable. Vacant.

I put my hand over my heart, taking it all in. “You see,” I say to Caesar. “This is what I meant by shocked.”

“Happy and shocked, I presume?” he beams at me.

“Definitely.”

When the cheers from the audience die down, Caesar’s mood quietens. He addresses me gently, “Now, Wren. I’m afraid that our time is drawing to a close. But before you go, I’d like to ask you one last question.”

I lean forwards in my seat. “Of course.”

“As you know, we are very glad to have you here amongst us. But how do you imagine you will return to us in a few weeks’ time? It’s an impressive field of competitors. Do you have a secret for success?”

I glance down towards where the other tributes are sitting. I can feel Blythe’s eyes burning into mine.

“No, I don’t have a secret, Caesar,” I say. “I’m an open book. All I have is a promise.”

I steel myself, staring directly down the lens of the camera. And suddenly I’m not on the stage anymore. I’m not being broadcast to the whole of Panem. I’m in the Justice Building, clutching onto Clara.

“What promise?”

You can hear a pin drop on stage.

“I’m not going to try. I’m going to win.”

Then buzzer goes off and I’m on my feet, exiting the stage to a deafening applause. I catch a glimpse of Finnick who nods at me with approval and something bordering on pride. I don’t dwell on it for too long, though. I simply settle back into my chair and concentrate on lowering my pounding heart rate. When the room stops spinning, I realise that something has settled in the pit of my stomach. Something that wasn’t there before.

Hope.


	7. The Game Changer

After the interviews draw to a close, I feel like I’m walking on air. It’s like something warm and hopeful has bloomed in my chest. I probe at the feeling curiously, trying to decide whether it’s real or not. I haven’t felt this optimistic about my chances of survival in… Well, ever. It feels different, nice even. But anything beats despair, I suppose.

Then again, I mustn’t let myself get carried away. The night isn’t over yet. In fact, it’s barely begun. By the time I arrive at the fourth floor, this fact is obvious. My prep team are out in full force, celebrating the success of my interview. The moment they catch sight of me, they swarm, chattering incessantly about everything from my dress to Caesar’s suit. I swallow their praise as best I can, smiling in all the right places, but if I’m being honest, they just set me on edge. And it’s not because of their strange, clipped accents or bizarre surgical enhancements. I’ve grown used to those. It’s because I know they’ll be glued to their screens tomorrow morning watching me fight for my life. If I’m cut down in the first ten minutes, will they cheer like they’re doing now? Or will they weep, powdered faces melting away under the force of their tears? Or will they be indifferent, accepting that my death is merely routine?

I give my head a small shake, clearing the thought. It isn’t clever to linger on such a morbid subject, especially when the games start in a matter of hours. So I distract myself, searching the party for any sign of my mentor. Sure, Finnick isn’t the person that I really want to speak to right now – that role is reserved solely for Clara – but he did have a talent for cheering me up, even at the worst of times. And I had done well in my interview, surely that would set him in a good mood. But, despite searching every corner of the room, I come up empty. I should be used to it now, really. Finnick was never in the training centre at nights. For all I know, he could return late tomorrow afternoon, long after the first canon fires. I feel my stomach sink at the thought and my features tug into a frown.

“Why the sour face, dear? This is supposed to be a celebration.” Fenwick’s voice appears out of nowhere as she materialises at my side.

I jerk in surprise, barely repressing the urge to bolt. She looks as severe as ever, snake like features sharp and unforgiving.

“I don’t feel like celebrating,” I return thoughtlessly.

If it was Marina or anyone else that heard my response, I would be scolded for my blatant lack of gratitude. But Fenwick simply arches an eyebrow, fiddling with the ribbon of my dress.

“Hideous old thing,” she remarks, eyes roaming over her creation. “Not at all what I had planned for you. But I didn’t have much choice after your mentor got himself involved.”

I draw back, noting the accusation her tone. She didn’t honestly think that I had anything to with Finnick’s plans, did she?

“I didn’t-“ I start, but she cuts me off, raising a clawed hand.

“I know, dear, I’m not stupid,” says Fenwick. “You couldn’t persuade your way out of a paper bag.”

 _Ouch_. I try not to bristle at her insult, settling for watching her evenly. She follows suit, beady eyes roaming over my features with laser like precision.

Then, after a painful silence, she says, “Why does he care about you?”

I open my mouth, eager to retaliate, but find that I have no words. I have no answer to that question. How am I supposed to tell her why Finnick is so invested in saving my skin when I have no clue myself?

“Well?” she prods, staring at me like I’m a particularly bothersome puzzle. “It’s been irking me.”

It’s been irking me too, I think, trying to come up with a half decent answer.

“He’s my mentor,” I supply, unable to think of any other reason. “He has to.”

Fenwick simply clicks her tongue, disappointed.

“I think we both know that’s not true,” she says, releasing the ribbon of my dress with a final, sharp tug.

And as much as I despise the woman, I know that she’s right. I may not know Finnick well, but he doesn’t strike me as the type to invest himself so freely. It might look like he does, with his never-ending string of lovers, but there’s something else there too. Something that I can’t quite put my finger on. All I know is that he must have his reasons for trying to save my life, even if I have no idea what they are.

“Well,” Fenwick interrupts my train of thought. “There’s still a night between now and the arena. Sleep on it, dear.”

Then, as abruptly as she appeared, she’s gone, slinking soundlessly into the crowd. I chew my bottom lip nervously. Sleep on it? That was stupid. If Fenwick had one ounce of empathy, she would know that I didn’t intend to sleep at all. Even if I wanted to, it was impossible. Especially now that my mind is running at a mile a minute, trying to pick apart Finnick’s motives. I scan the crowd once more, hoping against hope that I will see his face. I don’t.

And just like that, the faint ember of hope in my chest goes out. I stand stock still, letting the sound of celebrations rush over me like a wave. I dig my nails into my palm, willing myself to concentrate, to assess my options. The way I see it, I only have two: Stay here and endure more small talk or go back to my room and hide under my duvet until morning. Both are bleak and I’m struggling to decide between them when a great crash erupts from the other side of the room.

I turn just in time to watch as three towers of champagne flutes topple to the ground. They smash upon impact, spraying glass and alcohol at anyone in range. My prep team yelp in horror and Marina shrieks for the avoxes to come and clean the mess. I hadn’t even noticed them before, clinging to corners of the room. I glance at the pair who abandon their post at the elevator, scurrying forward, terror etched deep into their features. And they’re right to be afraid, too. Someone will be punished for this scene, and you can bet that it won’t be my prep team. Yet, I can’t rouse myself to go and offer help. Not when all my sympathy is currently reserved for myself. It’s selfish, I know, but it’s true. And there’s one more thing that prevents me from offering assistance: the elevator. My eyes are drawn to it immediately. It’s wide open and unguarded – mine for the taking.

I step forwards without thinking, suddenly overcome with a desperate desire to get out of here. Maybe some part of me assumes that I will be caught immediately, that someone will spot a runaway tribute and raise the alarm. But no-one even glances in my direction. They’re all far to engrossed in the mess of champagne and glass. I jam my finger into the button marked for the twelfth floor. At first, I’m not sure why I do it. I would have a much better chance at escape if I was to head to the ground floor and make a run for it. But that would be ridiculously stupid. I have seen the swarm of peacekeepers that surround the training centre. And even if I managed to get past them – and that is a big ‘if’ – I don’t know the Capitol. I would be lost in seconds. Anyway, I don’t think that I’m trying to run away, not really. Heading to the twelfth floor felt instinctive, almost pre-planned. Then I realise what I’m after: the rooftop balcony. I’d heard some of the other tributes moaning about the fact that it’s reserved for District Twelve. “What are they going to do, fling themselves off it?” Blythe had said one day at lunch. The rest of the careers fell over themselves laughing. The pair from Twelve shrunk away in fear.

No, I decide. That’s not what I’m after either. I might be scared out of my wits and desperate, but suicide isn’t in my repertoire. Not when Clara is counting on me. What I want, I resolve as the doors slide open, is to see the stars. After all, this could be the last time I have the oppourtunity to. This could be my last night on earth.

When I take my first cautious step, I’m met with a deafening silence. The entire floor is devoid of life, as if the avoxes have erased all evidence of this year’s tributes. If it was any other district, I would say that it was a bit premature. But this is Twelve that we’re talking about, and everyone knows what happens to them. The idea of it tugs at something in my stomach. Guilt, maybe? But then I steel myself and return to the task at hand: the balcony. I tiptoe across the room on feather light feet, almost proud of my silent procession. Then I see something that makes my heart stop.

Haymitch Abernathy.

Years of watching footage from the reapings had taught to me to recognise the familiar lines of his body. When I was younger, I was terrified of the man. There was something about the jagged, angry look in his eyes that I found deeply unsettling. But then, a few years ago, he careened off stage, almost taking Twelve’s escort with him. I laughed so hard that I cried. Clara had disapproved of that, hushing me gently. “That’s not nice, Wren. He’s unwell,” she’d said. It didn’t stop my shoulders from jerking up and down hysterically.

If she was worried by the state he was in then, she’d be a mess of nerves by now. He’s sprawled out over the couch, clutching a bottle in his hands. Every now and then he jerks about, lips forming a name that I don’t recognise. Maisy, maybe? It’s hard to tell given how much he’s slurring his words. Not that it matters. I shouldn’t be trying to decipher the words of a drunken mentor; I should be thanking my lucky stars. Because even if I do wake Haymitch up, I can easily outrun him. Drunk people take time to coordinate their limbs; terrified tributes do not.

So, with a renewed sense of confidence, I slip past the sleeping man and out onto the balcony. The moment I open the sliding doors, I’m met with an icy wind that whips around my body. The hairs of my arms prickle up and I silently curse myself for not wearing anything warmer. Although that’s not really fair, I suppose, given the fact that I didn’t plan to come up here.

I wonder if they’re looking for me yet. Even Marina would have realised that something’s amiss by now. But instead of feeling worry knot in my stomach, I feel a funny sense of satisfaction. I hope I’ve ruined their celebrations. I hope I’ve ruined their whole night, they’ve certainly ruined mine.

I tip my chin towards the sky, gazing up at the stars. They’re not as clear here as they are in Four, but I can just about make them out. Clara might be looking at the same ones right now. We always did that the night before the games – cracked open our paint peeled window and counted the stars. I would give anything to have her here with me now. To feel her hand in mine, solid and sure. To have her tell me that everything will be okay. And to believe her when she does.

But that can’t happen.

No. No, I have to stop thinking like this, or I’ll end up doing something stupid like cry. So I screw my eyes shut, take another step towards the railing, and divert my thoughts someplace else. Somewhere safer, separate from Clara. The sea! It’s nowhere near the Capitol, but if I try hard enough, I can trick myself into hearing it. I’m sure I can. So I root myself to the balcony, straining my ears as hard as possible. I’m not sure how long I stand there for before a familiar sound echoes in the shell of my ear. Yes! That’s it. The tide, the surf meeting the sand, the constant ebb and flow, the-

“Wren?”

I almost jump out of my skin, turning around so fast I’m sure I’ve given myself whiplash. Finnick emerges from the sliding doors, looking out of breath and more than a little concerned.

“What are you doing up here? I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” he says, taking my shoulders in his warm hands.

I shiver at the sudden heat, casting the sky a defeated glance. “I wanted to see the stars.”

Finnick follows my eyes, incredulous. “The stars?” he breathes.

I half shrug between rounds of shivers but it looks more like an involuntary spasm.

“You’re freezing, Medler. How long have you been out here?” he asks, rubbing his hands up and down my arms.

How long have I been out here? I have no idea.

“Come on,” Finnick says, leading me towards the door. “Let’s get you inside.”

I pull back, swallowed by a desperate urge to cling onto the sea. It’s delusional and I know it, but I’m too worked up to feel embarrassed. It sounded so real.

“Wren, I’m serious, honey. You’ll catch your death out here,” says Finnick, starting to shiver himself.

I can’t help but crack a smile.

“That would be funny wouldn’t it?” I say. “If I die before tomorrow. Who’d you think they’ll replace me with? Marina?”

Finnick doesn’t join in on the joke.

“Nobody’s dying, Medler. Let’s go.”

“Wren,” I correct automatically, not budging an inch.

Finnick groans in frustration.

“Fine. Nobody’s dying, Wren. Let’s go.”

I should be put out by his tone, but it’s like watching Haymitch fall off the stage all over again. As hard as I try, I can’t stop myself from laughing. Because I’m a tribute and dying is what tributes do best.

“Listen, Wren. Marina’s losing her mind down there. Do you really want to spend tonight receiving a lecture?”

I shrug, still supressing laughter. “I don’t know,” I answer. “Pretty sure I’m already listening to one.”

And just like that, I’m certain that I’ve done it. That I’ve effectively undone all the progress that Finnick and I have made so far. And I’m sure that I know what will happen next: Finnick will shut off, and I’ll be escorted to the fourth floor in silence.

Only, that doesn’t happen.

All that I hear is a soft sigh of defeat, and Finnick’s footsteps drawing level with where I stand.

“I know how you’re feeling, Wren,” he says and there’s no hint of disapproval. Just honesty.

I stare forwards at the twinkling city lights.

“You were a career,” I say. “You volunteered.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him shake his head.

“That doesn’t mean I was ready for it-“

“But-“

“Or that I wasn’t scared.” He pauses for a moment. “I was stupid. I was fourteen.”

I’m not sure how much I believe that. I was only six at the time, but I can recall odd parts of Finnick’s games. He never looked scared or stupid to me. He looked like he was enjoying it.

I breathe out, watching as the heat of my breath turns to white vapour.

“I don’t want to die.”

I’m not sure why I say it. I’ve been thinking it from the moment my name was called, but never said it out loud. Maybe it's because I think it should be obvious. Nobody wants to die. Not like this anyway.

Finnick lets the words sit in the air between us for a moment. Then he moves, laying his hands on either side of my shoulders. I have no choice but to look at him now, and he looks different. Not like the Finnick Odair from our screens, the sex-symbol from District Four. He looks ordinary and honest. Someone to be trusted.

“You’re not going anywhere, Wren,” he says. “I’m not going to let that happen.”

“Why?” I return automatically, recalling Fenwick’s conversation. “Why are you helping me? You don’t have to.”

I watch him consider my words. There’s something playing out behind his eyes, some sort of conflict. But it’s gone as soon as it came.

“Yes I do,” he says. “You’re my responsibility.”

I resist the urge to yell.

“It’s more than that. You can’t care about every tribute you train.”

“Never said I did.”

“Then tell me!” I say, working hard to keep my voice clear above the raging wind.

“Because you shouldn’t be here, Wren.”

“Nobody should be here, Finnick!” I cry back.

He shakes his head holding onto me firmly. “Well, especially not you.”

“I was reaped!” I exclaim, consumed by frustration. “The odds weren’t in my favour, that doesn’t make me special, or worthy, or-“

I cut off mid rant, watching as Finnick looks over his shoulder before moving closer to me.

“The odds had nothing to do with it.”

Whatever argument I have turns to ashes on my tongue.

“What?”

Finnick breathes in evenly, focusing on me intently. When he speaks, his voice is so low I can barely make him out.

“You weren’t reaped by chance, Wren.”

A thousand questions burn on my tongue and it feels like my stomach has fallen to my feet but I keep silent, willing him to go on.

“Now I need you to listen to me, can you do that?”

I nod so hard my head nearly falls off.

“You’re not safe here. I will explain everything in District Four, I swear-“

“Wait-“ I start, desperate to know more but Finnick is having none of it.

“Listen to me.” He adjusts his grip on my shoulders, doing everything to convey the urgency of the situation. “You can’t react to anything I’m saying, alright? You can’t let anyone see.”

And suddenly my shock breaks away like a dam, giving way to an all- consuming fear.

“There’s no one here,” I just about manage to get out.

“Yes there is,” Finnick says, barely audible. “There always is.”

I bite down every question I have and watch the cogs move behind his eyes. He’s deciding how best to go about this. I’m deciding whether or not to scream.

“When your name was called there were no volunteers, right?”

I nod with a head that feels like it’s been carved from stone.

“Right,” he shoots back, urgent. “Because they were told not to. They were told that someone else was being sent into the arena.”

“Me,” I breathe, mind racing to put everything together, but the pieces just wont fit.

“You think that whipping posts and peacekeepers are the only way to keep people in line, Wren? There’s more than one way to punish the Districts.”

I’m shaking now, utterly confused.

“But I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, voice chopped up with fear.

Finnick shakes his head. I think he’s trembling now too.

“It’s not your punishment, Wren. It’s mine.”

At that, I can’t hold my tongue for a second longer. Every burning question I have shoots up my throat like bile. Violent and unstoppable. The first word is just crossing my lips when the balcony doors fly open.

I hear her long before I see her.

“There you are!” Marina shrieks, voice pinched with anger. “I have spent all night looking for you! And now you’ve dragged your mentor out into this foul weather, too? What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?”

I freeze where I stand, shivering as Finnick removes his hands from my shoulders. He’s talking to Marina now, voice velvety smooth. My own voice has shrivelled up and died somewhere in my throat. I couldn’t form words if I tried.

_It’s not your punishment, Wren. It’s mine._

I run the sentence over and over again in my mind until my brain throbs. I’m so consumed by the task that I barely realise I’ve been escorted back to the fourth floor. When I glance up, I can see Marina berating me. She’s so angry that even her eyelashes are vibrating with rage. Usually, I would find that hysterical, satisfying, even. But now I can barely stop myself from crying. I never should’ve listened to Fenwick, I never should’ve gotten in the elevator, I never should’ve listened to Finnick-

“Let’s go, Wren.”

His voice cuts through my thoughts and I look up, catching a glimpse of Marina’s retreating form. She must’ve finished yelling at me then. I turn back to Finnick, questions welling in my eyes, but he simply gives his head a small shake. I understand what he’s saying at once: Not here. Not now. I should have seen it coming. The training centre was crawling with peacekeepers and avoxes, eyes and ears everywhere. Finnick wasn’t going to say a word.

So I follow suit, zipping my lips shut as I follow him down the corridor and towards my bedroom. The games! How could I have ignored them all this time? At once, my brain feels like it’s ripping in half. Like it’s tearing itself apart trying to balance two life shattering revelations at once. By the time the door is open, I am ready to scream, but settle for perching myself numbly on the edge of the bed.

For a moment, neither one of us speaks. Finnick, because everything he has to say is a secret, and me, because I’m not sure that I can anymore. But then something stronger than confusion rises in my chest. Anger. Anger that I am heading to my death full of unanswered questions and fear. Well, there’s only one solution for that: I can’t die. I have to win.

“Advice,” I manage to croak out, looking at Finnick hard. “I need advice for the arena.”

We have been through almost everything already, but Finnick seems grateful for the change of topic. He reiterates everything carefully.

“Get away from the bloodbath, find water. Stick with your partner and avoid the career pack at all costs.”

I nod with a head that feels like it’s been carved from stone.

“Find a weapon if you can. They’re the one thing sponsors never send.”

“They sent you a trident,” I recall, curious at the raggedness of my own voice. I’ve never heard it like this before.

“I was lucky, you might not be.”

My shoulders drop and I take the words as if they’re a physical blow. I can feel my chin wobbling and my throat spasm. Finnick takes my shaking hands in his at once.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Wren. I didn’t mean-“

I’m barely paying attention to his words. I’m just holding my breath and squeezing my eyes shut. I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry. Crying won’t get me answers. Crying won’t help me win the games.

I pull myself free of Finnick, only speaking when I’m certain it won’t end in tears.

“If you could go back, what advice would you give yourself?" I say. "What advice did your mentor give you?”

Finnick’s answer is immediate and somehow and know this will be our last conversation before the games begin.

“Better not to give into it," he breathes. "It takes ten times as long to put yourself together as it does to fall apart.”

I recite the words to myself long after Finnick’s departure. After I peel myself out of Fenwick’s dress. After I scrub every inch of my body red raw. After I crawl under my duvet.

A million thoughts cross my mind before the sun comes up, but only one is solid enough to hold onto:

Someone has sent me into the arena, and the odds had nothing to do with it.


	8. The Games Begin

I don't feel like I'm going to throw up. I feel like I want to turn my skin inside out, or rip it all off, or scream until my lungs are sad and shrivelled in my chest. But I don't think I'll be sick.

Which is a good thing, I suppose, considering that all of Panem will be watching me in a few hours' time. Not to mention that Fenwick would be furious. She swept into my room a few hours before dawn, took one long glance at my tear-stained face, and handed me a simple, white shift. I remember eyeing it suspiciously, as if it had teeth.

Fenwick simply pursed her lips. "You're not wearing it into the arena," she said. "It's just for transport."

That was stupid, I thought. In Medler House, we had to wear our clothes until we outgrew them, no exceptions. Sometimes even after that. That's why my reaping dress was about two sizes too small. "Wastefulness is wickedness," Ms Violet would say. But then again, this was the Capitol. What did I expect?

We walked to the hovercraft in silence. Fenwick inspected her clawed nails with laser-like precision, whilst I tried my hardest not to cry. During the flight – which felt both like forever and five minutes – I tried to imagine what the other tributes might be doing. Tressa was probably thinking about her brother. The pair from twelve would either be hysterical or catatonic. Maybe both. Then there were the careers, who would almost certainly be impatient for the games to begin. But what about Blythe? I could hardly see her brimming with excitement, or trembling in fear. No, she'd be doing something far more productive. She'd be thinking…

And that, I realise somewhere between the hovercraft and the launch room, is exactly what I should be doing, too.

"In here," Fenwick says, ushering me into a small room marked with my name and district number.

And although I don't want to think about what horrors lurk above ground, my eyes are glued to the launch tube.

"Ah, here we are," Fenwick breathes, picking up a carefully folded pile of clothes.

I step towards her, watching carefully as she splays them out over a cold, metal table. So this is what I will wear into the arena. It comes in three pieces. The first is a maroon and black bodysuit, which clings to my skin stubbornly.

"It's like a wetsuit," I say, thinking out loud. I've lived in District Four long enough to know one when I see it.

And yet, Fenwick pauses, running a clawed hand over the material. She pinches the area just above my hip and lets out a click of disapproval.

I turn to face myself in the mirror. "There'll be water, right?" I say, feeling something like hope bloom in my chest.

If there's swimming involved, I might stand a chance. At least, more of a chance than someone who's never been in the water before.

"Perhaps," Fenwick answers. "But don't go expecting the tropics."

I look at her, confused. She answers by holding up a pair of skin-tight socks.

"Neoprene," she says. "It's the same material as your bodysuit, designed for use in… unfavourable conditions."

"Unfavourable conditions," I echo, feeling a sense of dread pool in my stomach.

Fenwick nods, passing me a pair of boots. They're black and lined with fur.

"Reasonable enough grip," Fenwick says, pointing towards the sole. "But you won't find ice to be your friend."

I freeze. "It's a frozen arena?"

Fenwick clicks her tongue. "I didn't say that."

"No, you just implied it," I shoot back, mind racing with scenarios. All of them bad.

Her beady eyes lock onto mine. "An implication is not the same as a fact, dear," she says, reaching for the third and final part of my uniform.

"Arms out," she commands.

I do as I'm told, allowing her to bundle me into a black coat. I bury myself into its folds gratefully, noting that's it's not as thick as I had hoped for. Then Fenwick adjusts the sleeves, eyes stopping just short of my wrist. And, at once, I know she's seen it. My token, Finnick's gift.

Her shark-like features curve into a smile.

"Did you ever get that answer, dear?" she asks.

My stomach twists uncomfortably.

_It's not your punishment, Wren. It's mine._

"Well?" She presses.

I shake my head, pulling my sleeve down. "No."

She knows I'm not telling the truth. I'm a mediocre liar at the best of times, and this definitely isn't the best of times. But she doesn't push the matter. She simply steers me towards a table opposite the launch tube and says that I should eat something.

I'm in no position to disagree – who knows where my next meal will come from – so I shovel down as much food and water as I can handle, trying to ignore Fenwick's prying eyes. She's searching for something; I can feel it. But I refuse to look up. Instead, I focus solely on my boots, staring hard at the laces. I could strangle someone with these, I think. If it ever came down to it. Maybe I'll start with my stylist.

We sit that like for what feels like a lifetime. Then a pleasant female voice announces that it's time to prepare for launch. I get up immediately, moving on autopilot, and make my way towards the launch tube. And I'm still petrified, but the feeling is far off. Perhaps my survival instinct has finally kicked in. Better late than never.

Fenwick follows close behind, standing inches from the launch tube. At first, she looks unchanged, if a little disappointed. And then something strange happens. Her eyes flick between my token and my face, brightening with curiosity. She raises a clawed hand, tracing my cheek with feather-light precision.

"What are you-" I start.

She cuts me off, giving her head a little shake. "How could I have been so blind?"

I feel my eyes narrow in confusion, half-irritated, half-perplexed. I shouldn't be wasting these last, precious seconds trying to understand what's going on in Fenwick's head. I should be saying something; telling her to make sure that Medler House is well-fed if Titus wins, or to have Finnick keep an eye on Clara if I don't make it back, to tell her that I really did try. But my mouth feels like its full of sawdust and Fenwick looks far too absorbed to listen.

She simply nods her head, triumphant. "Of course you're her."

"What are you talking about?" I snap back, utterly overwhelmed.

But Fenwick doesn't answer. She simply takes one, neat, step back and watches as my launch tube zips closed.

"I'm who?" I repeat, banging my open palm on the glass.

My voice sounds fuzzy to my own ears, so there's little chance she can hear me properly, but I don't stop.

"I'm who?"

The circular plate below my feet creaks to life.

"Who?"

I feel it start to rise, pushing me upwards, towards the surface.

"Fenwick!"

I drop to my knees, desperate to read some sort of answer in her face before I'm moved out of sight completely, but she gives away nothing.

"Please!"

I slam my hands against the glass in a final, desperate manoeuvre.

Then everything goes dark.

And just like that, I'm frozen, huddled over my plate with nothing but the sound of short, panicked breaths for company.

"Keep it together," I bite out, willing my nerves away.

If the first shot of me entering the arena is taken on my knees, gasping for air, I will repel every sponsor for miles. So I force myself upwards, rising to my feet just in time to break the surface.

Turns out, that wasn't the best idea. As soon as I'm above ground, I'm smacked in the face by a relentless wind. It's ice-cold, and more than enough to knock my balance, so I drop to my knees again and clutch either side of the metal plate for dear life.

"Where are you?" I breathe, doing everything in my power to focus.

And just like that, my brain divides itself into two, perfect halves. The first is petrified, and busies itself with registering every threat in the vicinity: fellow tributes, thick sheets of snow, and weapons that I do not want to end up on the wrong side of. The second half is colder. It doesn't panic, it doesn't falter. It only has one goal: survive.

I lean forward on my plate, getting as close to the ground as possible without touching it. It's ice, all ice. But how thick? Will it give in the second twenty-four tributes leap off their pedestals? Or will it hold out long enough for me to get to the cornucopia and back? I turn, taking in the rest of the arena. There's a dense forest to my left, packed with snow-capped trees. To my right, a mountain, taller than anything I've ever seen.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 73rdannual hunger games," Claudius Templesmith's voice booms around the arena.

I shudder, taking note of the holographic numbers that flash above the cornucopia. Sixty seconds, that's all I've got. Sixty seconds between life and death.

My eyes zero in on the cornucopia. More specifically, the space just beyond its gaping mouth. There are all sorts of supplies: weapons, tents, sleeping bags, food, and gloves. I clutch my plate tighter, knowing that I cannot leave this place without a pair. If I do, I'm as good as dead.

That's when I remember Finnick's advice from last night. "Avoid the bloodbath at all costs," he'd said. "The girl from Two wants you dead. Don't give her the chance."

Is that what I was doing? I thought, clutching the edge of my plate so tight my knuckles went white. Was making a break for the cornucopia the same as a death sentence?

I pause, scanning the field for her scarred face but she's not here. Not close, anyway. I am wedged between two unfamiliar faces. Three pedestals to my left, however, I spot someone I recognise. The boy from Twelve. He's standing up, wafer-thin body swaying dangerously in the wind. And I want to ignore him, I do. But if he's thrown from his plate and blown to bits before the games begin, I'm in trouble. So I call over, desperate to gain his attention.

"Get down!" I say, voice lost under the raging wind and booming countdown.

I try again, louder this time. "Twelve! You need to get down!"

At that, he turns and veers dangerously to the right. We can't have more than ten seconds to go, but I can't shake the feeling that something awful is about to happen.

"Down!" I scream, gesturing wildly at myself.

And finally, he meets my eye. I watch as he looks at me and then at everyone else, noting that we're all on our knees, bracing against the relentless wind.

_Five_

I swear I see him nod jerkily and then begin to bend over.

_Four_

A gust of wind – stronger than anything I've ever felt before – comes out of nowhere.

_Three_

I screw my eyes shut and brace for the worst.

_Two_

There's a howl of fear, the sound of a body hitting the ice, and then nothing.

_One_

I dare to look up, catching a glimpse of the boy. He's face down, curled into a little ball, but alive.

"Twelve-" I start, voice hesitant.

Then it happens. I barely have time to turn my cheek before the first landmine goes off.

It throws me so fast and so hard, it's a wonder every bone in my body doesn't shatter instantaneously. I land on my back, face-up, gasping for air, several feet from someone's pedestal. There's an excruciating pain between my shoulder blades and the left-side of my face feels like it's on fire. But I can't concentrate on any of that. Not when everything around me is a deep, crimson red. Like Caesar's suit… Like Blythe's dress.

Blood, my brain offers up, slow and uncoordinated. It's blood. The boy from Twelve's. Maybe others. He fell… I made him fall. It's my fault. All my fault. It's his… It's his blood. This is a bloodbath.

A bloodbath!

I sputter back to life, rolling onto my front. The boy must've fallen a second before the gong went off and the landmines disabled. That's why I'm still alive. At least for now.

I squint ahead, realising that almost everyone is off their pedestals. The girl to my right is still there, though. She hesitates, glancing between where I have landed and the space beyond. I refuse to follow her eyes. There's nothing there I want to see.

Instead, I force myself to my feet. My ears are still ringing and it's hard to focus on anything for too long, but I know that I must move.

Still, every cell in body screams at the effort. It's all I can do not to fold like a ragdoll and wait for Blythe to put me out of my misery.

Blythe!

Her name sends a jolt of fear up my spine. I snap my head from side to side, scanning the field for her familiar frame. Not here yet, I think. She'll be where the fighting is thickest – in the mouth of the cornucopia – but not for long. Bloodbaths were always quick and soon the remaining careers would be all geared up and ready to pick off survivors. I did not intent to stick around whilst that happened. So, with a horrible sense of unease, I doubled back, heading towards the dense forest on my left.

On the one hand, it was a ridiculous decision. I had no weapons, no food, no water, no shelter, not even a pair of gloves. But, on the other hand, if I'd stayed where I was, I probably wouldn't be breathing right now. So I force my doubts to the back of my mind and don't stop moving until I'm well beyond the treeline.

As soon as I'm confident that no one has tailed me, I pause to assess my wounds. The pain between my shoulders has reached a peak now, throbbing erratically. I raise my hand, gently prodding the space just below the nape of my neck. It's sore and tingles uncomfortably under my icy fingertips. Muscle damage, I think. And that's the best I could hope for, really. Getting a break or dislocation on day one certainly wouldn't put the odds in my favour.

Then I shift my attention towards my face. The left-side doesn't feel as hot anymore. Instead, it feels raw and tight. I don't need a mirror to know that I'm dealing with a burn. But how severe? I pause, rummaging through my brain for any useful information. So this is what Finnick meant about making use of the training sessions. I guess sticking to the rope tying section wasn't a wise move after all. Either way, too late now. Then it hits me. I have seen burns before. Years ago, in the weeks before my first reaping, a few of the girls in Medler House took up smoking. They were older than I was. And much cooler. I remember watching in awe as they slinked off behind the dorms at dusk, lighters in hand. Clara complained bitterly. "They make everything stink," she'd said, crushing her nose into the side her pillow. I didn't reply, not wanting to argue. Instead, I waited for the girls to return, ash smell poorly masked with cheap perfume. They didn't notice me then, glancing up at them with wide eyes. There was something fascinating about it. About how openly they revelled in defying Ms Violet's curfew. One girl – I can't recall her name – took to flicking her lighter back and forth. It's murky orange flame danced dangerously close to the thin, cotton curtains. If Clara was awake, she would have had a heart attack. But she wasn't. I was. And I wasn't going to do anything but watch the flame rock gently in the air until I slipped into an uneven, half-sleep. It didn't last long, though. The girl's shriek of terror sent us all bolt upright. The curtains were in flames, and what had clearly started as a small blaze grew larger and larger by the second. Clara had me by the wrist at once, yanking my prone body towards the door. Almost everyone in the dorm followed suit. Except for those rebellious few who grabbed anything they could and batted at the flames until they disappeared under a plume of smoke. "Ms Violet's going to kill us," someone said, voice pitching into a whine, but she was swiftly cut off by another girl's gasp. At once we followed her eyes, landing on the girl who had started the fire's hands. They were red and waxy in the moonlight. Turns out she had panicked and smacked at the flames with open palms. And even though it looked awful, she told us all she couldn't feel a thing.

And that's when I allow my shoulders to drop. If I was dealing with anything serious, I wouldn't be able to feel my face at all. Worst case scenario, I was in for some serious blistering. So I shove my panic down, and busy myself with scooping up a large handful of snow. I pack it together, ignoring how my fingers sting at the effort, and press it into my cheek hard.

"Much better," I say, more for the cameras than myself.

The Gamemakers will be cutting back and forth from the bloodbath, letting everyone know who has survived. Perhaps a sponsor will hear me, admire my pluck, and send me some food. Or maybe the Gamemakers will decide I've had a rough enough start and leave me alone.

Unlikely.

With that in hand, I force myself to think practically. I have no food, no weapons, no shelter and no gloves. Not good. But I do have water, I think, glancing at the thick sheet of snow beneath my boots. And that's better than nothing.

I know that I will have to stick close to the cornucopia. If I stray too far from my only known food source, I'll be easy prey. Better to hope that someone else will slip up and leave something edible where I can snatch it. Weapons aren't too much of an immediate problem, either. I'm not the confrontation type. And that just leaves me with shelter. I glance at my surroundings. Can't sleep on the snow, I'm far too visible. But equally, can't scale a tree without falling and breaking something vital. I pause, assessing. Better to keep moving for now. Perhaps there'll be some kind of natural shelter available, like a cave. Surely the Gamemakers wouldn't let everyone to freeze. Would they?

I don't dwell on that question for too long and decide, instead, to peel off my boots. I take my socks and stuff my hands into them before pulling the boots back on. Not quite gloves, I think to myself. But better than nothing. Before I leave, I strip a thin piece of bark off a tree, tear it into chunks, and pop one into my mouth. It tastes vile, like cold dirt but I force myself to chew it into a thick paste. I'm not fully sure if it's the right kind of tree, but I remember seeing someone do a similar thing years ago. They didn't win. But they also didn't starve to death.

It's late afternoon when I begin to hear the cannons. Each shot represents a dead tribute. I freeze in my tracks counting them off. One… Two… Three… on and on until they reach fourteen. Fourteen dead in total. Ten left to play. I roll the number around in my head, unable to believe my luck. Bloodbaths almost always saw the most deaths in a single day. But now there were only nine people between me and going home. A small burst of hope flowers in my chest. It's quickly dimmed when my brain throws out the accusation that I might be responsible for the small field of competitors. If I hadn't caught the boy from Twelve's attention, maybe he wouldn't have fallen and triggered the landmines. I shudder at the thought and force my mind in a different direction.

I didn't have long to find a place to rest for the night. The sun was quickly dipping low in the sky, casting the forest in an eerie, grey light. Soon, it would be pitch black and freezing cold. There wasn't much in the way of wildlife either, meaning that the sound of my boots crunching in the snow would be audible for anyone nearby.

I scan the space in-front of me. Trees, trees and more trees. Perhaps, I convince, myself, I have put enough distance between myself and the careers to survive the night. Surely, they would prefer the warmth of a sleeping bag over scouring the forest all night for stragglers.

I cling onto the thought hopefully, watching as my boots leave heavy footprints in the snow. I toy with the idea of covering them but figure that the weather will do that for me. Anyway, I have more pressing things to do than frantically cover my every other step. Like trying to decode Fenwick's last words to me in the launch room. "Of course you're her," she'd said. I lose myself in replaying those final moments: the realisation on her face, her cold finger tracing my cheek.

Then my thoughts pivot back to Finnick on the rooftop. The feeling of his hands pressed tight around my shoulders, willing me to grasp the severity of the situation. To believe him when he said he would get me home. That he would tell me everything.

I go over every inch of the memory, playing it on a loop.

_It's not your punishment, Wren. It's mine._

What did that mean? What _could_ that mean?

_It's not your punishment, Wren. It's mine._

He wasn't just warning me. He was apologising as if he was responsible for all of this. As if he knew me.

_It's not your punishment, Wren. It's mine._

The same, impossible way that Fenwick knew me.

_It's not your punishment, Wren. It's mine._

Only, what if it wasn't impossible?

_It's not your punishment-_

"Wren?"

I practically jump out of my skin, wheeling around so fast I choke on my mouthful of bark.

What kind of idiot snuck up on me only to call out for my attention?

And that's when I see her, pale faced and ruddy cheeked with her dirty blonde hair split into two messy plaits.

"Tressa?" I choke, spitting out a few lumps of bark.

Her face breaks into a wide grin as she takes me in.

"I was hoping it was you," she says, pointing towards my obvious boot prints in the snow. "I tried to find you during the bloodbath but by the time I made it back you were gone."

"Made it back?" I echo, still wary to close the gap between us.

Tressa shows no such apprehension. She simply nods, shrugging a heavy looking backpack off her shoulders.

"From the Cornucopia," she says, flipping open the flap. "Well, near the Cornucopia, I'm not a total idiot."

I watch as she carefully lays out the provisions. One thin black sleeping bag that reflects body heat. One pack of crackers. A few strips of beef jerky. An empty bottle of water. A lighter. A length of rope. And a pair of thick, fur lined gloves.

"Not too bad, right?" She says, smiling up at me.

And at once, I am on high alert. Not because of her upbeat attitude – which is disturbingly out of place – but at the thick of spray of dried blood on her hands.

"How did you get that?" I ask, trying to keep my voice level whilst mapping every available escape route.

Her eyes follow mine, and I watch as her face drops. She almost looks hurt.

"I didn't kill him," she says, voice both sombre and defensive. "It was Blythe."

"Blythe?"

"It was terrible, Wren," she says, packing up the backpack slowly. "Her own district partner. She didn't even hesitate."

My mouth falls open. Killing someone from your district was frowned upon, even in the Capitol. Blythe would have lost her place in the career pack for sure. Not to mention sponsors.

"You're sure?" I say, suddenly struck by the image of Blythe stalking the forest, alone and deadly.

"I'm sure," Tressa returns, voice flat. "I took his pack after she left."

I narrow my eyes. "She left without the backpack? That doesn't make any sense."

Tressa shrugs, dividing out two portions of crackers and jerky. "Since when does anything Blythe do make sense?"

I don't have an answer to that one, so I settle for a different line of interrogation.

"And how did you know you were following my prints and not Blythe's?" I ask.

"Because last time I checked, Blythe wasn't walking with a limp. You, however, were blown off your plate before the gong even went off. I'd say the odds were pretty much in my favour."

I digest her words, suddenly feeling rude.

"Oh," I say, voice embarrassingly thin.

"Oh," Tressa returns, lips curving into a smile.

She holds out her hand, offering me a cracker and jerky. "Allies?"

I nod, stuffing the food into my mouth. "Allies."

And, despite our rough start, I have to admit that I find Tressa's company reassuring. Maybe it's the backpack full of supplies that has swayed my mind, or maybe I'm just grateful not to be spending my first night in the arena alone. Either way, we walk in a comfortable silence until we come upon a cluster of wide-trunked trees.

"Nobody coming this way would see us," Tressa says, nodding in the direction we came.

"True," I return, not entirely comfortable with the idea of making camp somewhere so open but what other options did we have? "Let's not stay for too long, though."

Tressa nods, picking the tree with the widest stump. Then we get to work, scraping away all the fresh snow around our campsite. Once we're down to frozen ground, we gather as much dry pine as possible, stacking it up where we intend to sleep. It won't keep all the melted snow out, but it'll help. I figure it's too dangerous to build a fire now, but the heat from our huddled bodies should be enough. We split the gloves – one each – and bury our hands deep into our pockets. I convince Tressa to resist using the sleeping bag until we've reached a half-decent shelter. There's no point in getting our most valuable item wet on the first day. She looks reluctant, but agrees.

Night has just come when the anthem starts to play. I peek up at the giant Capitol seal in the sky and brace myself. At home, they will be watching detailed replays of each and every killing. Here, we will only see the photographs they televised with our training scores. A simple headshot with the district number flashed underneath. I brace myself as the first face flashes up. It's the boy from District Two, just like Tressa said. She looks up at him blankly. Next come the pairs from Three and Five and Six. So Titus is still alive; no surprise there. The girl from Seven is next, followed by the boy from Eight. I squeeze Tressa's arm lightly. That was her District partner. She sniffles quietly and studies her boots. I keep watching. All in all the only remaining tributes are the brother and sister from One, Blythe, Titus, the boy from Seven, the girls from Nine and Ten and the boy from Eleven. That's it. Then the Capitol seal is back with a musical flourish and screen fades to black.

"Eight left," I say. "Excluding us."

Tressa nods, not looking up from her boots.

I don't know how close she was with her partner, but judging from the wobble in her chin, I'm sure it was enough to hurt.

"I'll take first watch," I offer, straightening my back against the hard stump of the tree.

Tressa does look up at me now, blue eyes glassy in the moonlight.

"You sure?" She whispers.

I aim for levity. "Pretty sure I owe you one."

She offers a watery smile and goes to lay down, stopping half-way to the ground.

"Wait," she says. "You should have this, just in case."

I look as she produces something from under the folds of her coat. Its handle is grooved on either side, making for a firm grip. The blade itself is double edged and flexible.

"I was hoping for throwing knives," she murmurs, pressing the hilt of the blade into my open palm. "Though it's better than nothing, I suppose."

I nod silently, watching her pull her hood over her face and settle into an uneasy sleep. Only when I'm sure she's completely out of it do I allow my eyes to roam over the weapon in my hands.

I can't keep the relieved smile off my face. Because Tressa hasn't just given me any old weapon. She's offered me the same knife I've been handling for years. The one I've gutted countless fish with. A natural extension of my arm. Now, staring down at the gentle rise and fall of her chest, I only have one question: what do I do with it?


	9. The Alliance

My first night in the arena is a sleepless one. I spend most of it curled next to Tressa's warm body, scouring the forest for any sign of life. There's nothing, though. Time ticks by slowly, uninterrupted by wildlife or canon fire.

The silence bothers me, and I spend the better part of my watch trying to figure out why. By first light, I have my answer: they don't want us dead. Not yet, anyway. We're all at our physical peak, beefed up on a weeks' worth of food from the Capitol. One night in the cold won't be fatal. And that's important, considering that the games started less than twenty-four hours ago and fourteen of us are already dead.

Tressa wakes up with a smile on her face. It's forced, I can tell. But I don't mention it. She's probably just trying to ignore last night's news about her district partner; to forget the image of his pale face floating in the sky.

"We need to head east," she says abruptly, taking her knife back. "I figure there might be some caves near the foot of that mountain."

I follow her gaze, eyes landing on the snowy peak, and try to ignore how empty my palm feels.

"Sure."

Our two-person procession moves quickly and Tressa fills the time by talking.

"I hope my parents are alright," she says after a long while.

I raise my eyes from my boots to look at her properly. She isn't far from tears.

"I mean, I know they're not," she adds. "They can't be. But still…"

Her voice trails off and I can tell that this is the part of the conversation where I'm supposed to say something comforting, but all I can come up with is, "Well, you're still alive, aren't you?"

I regret the words the instant they leave my mouth, but Tressa actually laughs. It's a wet laugh – somewhere between amusement and tears – but I'll take it.

Then she burrows into the folds of her coat and looks at me, eyes curious.

"What about you?"

I frown. "What _about_ me?"

"Your parents," she says, treating the word carefully as if it might set me off. "Do you think about them too?"

I pause, trying to work out if this line of questioning is a joke. But Tressa's face is anything but insincere.

"I don't have parents," I say before stopping to correct myself. "Well, I do. I kind of have to, but I never knew them. I've been in Medler House my whole life."

Guilt pools in Tressa's eyes at once and I raise a hand to stop her before she can start.

"It's alright, honestly," I say, voice surprisingly light. "Given the circumstances, I'd say I'm pretty lucky, actually."

Tressa nods slowly, clearly unsure about whether or not she can agree out loud. It doesn't bother me, though. The subject of parents never has. Four is something of an anomaly amongst the Districts – at least, from what I can tell. The Capitol only ever presents our best side: an impressive line-up victors, picturesque neighbourhoods nestled against the nape of the sea, charming marketplaces bursting with fresh food. Everyone focuses on what the cameras are pointing towards, not what they are turning away from.

If they did, they would see the rest of us – the desperate ones. Four is an immensely overpopulated district. Some say it's our sailors blood. That large families are an inevitable part of life. But I know better.

I know that our training centre is the real problem. People figure that if they have enough kids, eventually they'll pop out a victor. Of course, things hardly ever work out that way. Unless you come from a rich family, you'll be relying on scouts. Scouts decide who joins the career academy depending on potential. That's why so many boys start working on the docks before the age of ten. They want to be seen; to be chosen. If they make the cut, they are trained at a reduced price and prepared to volunteer.

In the end, hardly anyone makes it to the arena… even less return in one piece. And what are their families left with? Debt and despair, mostly. That's where Medler House comes in. We're sort of a clean-up service, established to mop up whoever is left behind – a glorified storage space for District Four's unwanted kids.

Still, that's not what happened to me, though. I am – according to my best guess – a part of the second problem. The Peacekeeper problem. According to law, Peacekeepers are not allowed to have children outside of their home district, which is usually Two. Regardless, it happens all the time. Doubly so given Four's large population. Every now and then, you'll hear of a Peacekeeper who refuses to abandon their newfound family, but it's uncommon and rarely ends well. Mostly, the kids end up in Medler House and the Peacekeepers nowhere to be found. Not on public record, anyway.

I don't like to think about it too much.

"Do you hear that?" Tressa says suddenly, pulling me from my reverie.

I nearly jump out of my skin. "Hear what?"

She pauses, still as a statue. "It's like…" she fumbles for the word. "Static."

I strain my ears, angling my head towards the not too distant sound of rushing water.

"White water," I breathe.

Tressa looks confused, shivering on the spot. "What's white water?"

"Nothing good."

I take the lead, then, escorting us towards what I hope I am wrong about. It takes about fifteen minutes before we reach it.

"Ah," Tressa says, materialising at my side. "Now this _could_ be a problem."

I hum in agreement, although I'm almost certain my voice is lost to the deafening sound of rushing water. In front of us is a rapid, several metres in width. I size it up carefully, noting where the water bubbles a vicious white colour. That is where the current will be fastest.

"No chance we can go around?" I ask lamely, already knowing the answer.

"And miss giving the gamemakers a chance to kill us?" Tressa returns jokingly, but I can hear the apprehension in her tone.

"Well there's no way we can get across here," I say. "We need to find a crossing."

Tressa nods thoughtfully before approaching the edge of the rapid. She pauses for a moment and then, ever so gingerly, pokes the toe of her boot into the water.

"It's doesn't look _that_ deep," she muses.

I pull her back, unable to shake the feeling that we're too exposed out here. Unless there's a particularly gory scene playing out elsewhere, all cameras will be trained on us. And that means that something is going to happen sooner rather than later.

"It's not about depth," I say. "The current will sweep you under in seconds."

Tressa turns to face me. "I'm a good swimmer."

"Great, that'll come in handy when the rocks tear you to ribbons."

I don't mean to snap, but feeling so watched makes me feel uneasy. And there's another thought in here, too. One that, despite my best efforts, keeps worming it's way to the forefront of my mind… How easy it would be to convince Tressa to go first. I wouldn't have to do a thing. I could just hold the backpack and let the current sweep her away. Alliances fall apart all the time, and no one could blame me. After all, there are only ten of us left. Is it any kinder to wait? To leave things until there's no other choice?

"Wren?" Tressa says, waving her hand in front of my face. "You okay? You look a bit sick."

I shake my head quickly, forcing a smile that looks more like a grimace. "I'm good," I breathe. "Just nervous. I don't want to stick around here for too long."

Tressa nods, resolute. And her face is so genuinely understanding I feel disgusted at myself.

"Then let's move."

It's not long before we come upon a convenient crossing: a fallen tree that just about bridges the gap between where we are and where we're going. It's unstable. That much is obvious. It has a slick coat of bark that's glazed in a thin layer of ice and, somehow, I know that the gamemakers have placed it here deliberately. They hope to tempt us into crossing; into risking our lives.

"I don't like this," I say, turning to look at Tressa, although I struggle to hold her gaze.

She glances between the spot where we stand and the other side of the rapid, eyes narrowed in concentration.

"There's no shelter this side of the arena," she argues. "What's the alternative?"

Before I can answer an ear-splitting roar rips across the arena.

"What the-"

There's an even louder scream, a mangled howl of pain, and then the unmistakable sound of canon fire.

My brain throws up images of a disfigured tribute, torn to pieces by a raging mutt. A mutt that sounded way too close for comfort.

There's no need to tell Tressa what we both already know. The gamemakers have grown bored with our indecision. They mean to force us into action.

And it's working.

"Ready?"

Tressa nods so hard her head almost falls off, and just like that we're sprinting towards the crossing. It's only when Tressa has one foot on the icy tree that she hesitates.

"Move!" I snap, eyes darting back and forth between the treeline.

Tressa's eyes are glued on the rushing water. "Maybe it's gone?" she says, voice like a small child.

The words are barely out of her mouth before another roar thunders through the forest. This time, much closer.

"Maybe not!"

Her blue eyes flick towards the treeline and then lock onto mine. She looks desperate, frozen in fear.

"Look," I say, itching to move. "I'll go first and take the backpack and you follow behind, okay?"

She doesn't move.

"Tressa, there's no time," I say, shaking her hard. "We need to move _now_."

That pries a small sound of agreement from her chest, which is all the answer I need to pull the backpack from her rigid body. I sling it over my shoulder at once and climb onto the trunk, suddenly comprehending the full force of the rapids.

The tree groans under my weight, threatening to lurch onto its side. Panic burns in my chest, white hot and paralysing. But there's no time to give into it. If I hesitate, I die. If I slip, I die. If I stay here, I die. So, really, there's no option but to move.

I take half-a-second to steady my footing and adjust the backpack before I run. Just before I push off, I fix my gaze on the treeline. The bark is slick beneath my feet and I'm suddenly reminded of Fenwick's warning: _You won't find ice to be your friend._

She's right, I don't. But I am moving so far and so fast, there's no time to linger on it. I slip inches from the end, careening off the trunk and into the snow at an awkward angle. My hands fly out instinctively – attempting to break my fall – and I hear a snap.

Pain jolts up my right arm in waves but, for now, the adrenaline coursing through my body subdues it.

I get to my feet at once, searching frantically for Tressa. She's still standing on the other end of crossing, frozen to the spot.

I hear the roar again, so close I'm certain we've only got seconds to spare.

"Tressa," I yell, fighting to be heard above the rapids. "You need to move now!"

She jerks into action, as if the danger of our present situation has only just caught up with her.

She takes a clumsy step onto the tree, panicking when it shifts under her weight. I do my best to guide her, calling a chain of instructions whilst cradling my arm to my chest, but it's painful to watch.

I yell at her to move faster; she hesitates at every sound. I tell her not to crawl; she drops to her knees.

She's about half-way clear when I hear the warning sound of twigs snapping underfoot. There's a half-second delay, and then it's here.

A hideous, half-bear, half-hound bursts into the clearing. Its body is gnarled and twisted, ribs protruding from its sunken chest. It moves in bizarre spasms, howling in pain. The wispy, white fur around its muzzle is stained a bright, arterial red and there's something sharp protruding from its milky eye.

Tressa lets out a gasp of fear, which is all it needs to lock onto us. Its body arches back unnaturally and it lunges for the tree.

"Wren!" Tressa screams, clinging onto the bark so hard her knuckles turn white.

Every camera will be trained on us now. Everyone in Panem will be watching: Finnick, Fenwick, Clara…

I can't die like this.

Then I look at the desperation twisting Tressa's soft features and correct myself.

 _We_ can't die like this.

I don't think about what I'm doing, I just launch myself at the tree and scramble towards Tressa's inert body.

From here, I can smell the creature. It's an awful, acrid smell. Like something left to turn in the sun.

"Take my hand!" I yell, thrusting my good one towards Tressa.

She grabs it right away, dragging herself towards me.

The mutt moves too, jerking in our direction. And the tree, which struggled enough under my weight, finally gives in.

The end furthest from my body rolls into the rapid, throwing us all on our side. The mutt – which I now realise must be at least partially blind – suffers the most. Its hind legs are swept under the icy cold water at once, and it clings to the trunk with a pair of gnarled, yellow claws.

I still have a hold of Tressa, who can't be more than a few steps from safety.

"Come on!" I scream, feeling the trunk beginning to turn.

If we stay here, it won't be the mutt that kills us. It'll be the water… And I don't want to be known as the first tribute from Four to drown to death.

And then Tressa throws herself forwards. It happens so fast that I am knocked back onto the snowy bank. I keep a hold of Tressa's hand which, one moment, is barrelling in my direction, and the next, is being jerked backwards by an unseen force.

I am confused when she lets out a howl of pain, and then I see the mutt. Realising that the tree has given up altogether, it had taken one last, desperate swing at Tressa.

And that swing had landed.

Its gnarled claws were buried in her left calf.

"Wren!" Tressa shrieks, although it sounds mangled in her mouth.

My focus narrows to a pinpoint, and I pull her towards my chest, hard.

Under any other circumstances, the mutt would have pulled us both to our deaths with ease. But I hear it yelp in pain, body slipping further and further under the water. It lets out one final, garbled howl and then the rapids heave its twisted body away, claws cleaving through Tressa's soft skin like a knife through butter.

The release in pressure is instant, and I feel Tressa's weight on top of mine.

Blood pumps through my ears viciously, just as it pumps from Tressa's calf. Her face is a deathly ashen colour and, although her mouth is moving, I can't make out a word.

"It's okay," I say, pushing myself onto my knees. "You're going to be okay."

And I know it's a lie. If I was at home right now, I could predict exactly what Clara would say. She would tell me that we were going on a walk. That we didn't need to see what happened next. Only, I can't go for a walk now. I can only look at the terror in Tressa's eyes and try not to let it reflect in my own.

"You're going to be fine," I repeat, pulling my coat off.

It knocks my right hand painfully but there's no time to waste. I reach for the inner lining, looking for a weak part in the seam. But this is a Capitol made coat, it won't rip so easily. So I change tact, grabbing the knife from Tressa's belt. It fits in my palm like a glove, and I have a makeshift tourniquet in seconds. I tie it just below Tressa's knee as tight as I can and watch the bleeding slow. It's not a miracle, but it'll give us more time.

"Wren," Tressa forces out between heaving sobs, desperately trying to communicate something. From the defeat in her eyes, I know it's nothing good.

"Tell my family-"

"No."

"Tell them-"

" _No,_ " I repeat, voice hard.

Only now do I realise why Finnick hated it so much every time I brought up the likelihood of my own death. Why he refused my every attempt at giving up. I always thought it was worse on my end of things: staring down the barrel of your own demise.

But I was wrong.

Watching someone else do it was far worse.

"The bleeding is going to stop," I say. "We're going to find shelter and we're going to get sponsors, and we'll get you medicine-"

"Wren-"

"Tressa," I pause, forcing the rising hysteria out of my tone. "That's what's going to happen, okay?"

I don't wait for her answer, I just pull her to her feet and sling her arm over my shoulder.

"We can't be that far from the foot of the mountain. Can you walk?"

I can't face looking at Tressa but, after a moment, I feel her nod her head.

"I can try."

We hobble through the frozen forest for what feels like hours, and Tressa requests a steady stream of breaks to rest her leg. By dusk, we have eaten through the last of our food supplies and I can feel a horrible sense of dread boiling away in my stomach.

We have travelled too far from the cornucopia to double back and steal from the careers, and I haven't seen a single living creature since the mutt. If you can call it that.

"Wren," Tressa breathes, just as the sun dips below the skyline. "Over there."

I had been so preoccupied running over the obstacles in our path, I hadn't even bothered looking at what was right in front of me.

The snow beneath our boots had thinned out into a patchy sludge, which was peppered with small, jagged rocks. And, whilst we weren't exactly at the foot of the mountain, we were close. Close enough to be in throwing distance of a set of caves.

I feel a smile creep over my face. This was the best news we'd had since the gong went off.

I waste no time half-carrying, half-dragging Tressa into the mouth of cave. It's not too deep, but I make sure to light a match and investigate, just in case there are any mutts lurking.

Once I've confirmed that we're safe – or, as safe as we can be – I get to work retrieving our sleeping bag from the backpack. There's no snow inside the cave, so we don't have to worry about getting it wet, which is a blessing because I'm not sure Tressa could survive a night out in the cold.

"Your hand," she says, sweat-sheened face creasing in concern.

I follow her eyes, landing on the bow of my right wrist. It's about double the size of my left one and throbs painfully. Though I know I can't exactly complain, given the state of her leg.

"It's fine," I say. "I can't tell if it's broken or sprained, though. I heard a snap, but that could have been anything."

Tressa frowns. "If it was a bone breaking you wouldn't be able to move your arm at all."

I raise my eyebrows, tucking her into the sleeping bag as best I can.

"Must be a ligament," she continues.

I let out sigh. "Lucky me."

Then she looks at me, curious.

"How do you do that?"

I look back, confused. "Do what?"

"Pretend that everything's alright?"

The question takes me aback and I struggle to find an answer. She beats me to it, though.

"I remember that first day in the training centre, when you argued with the trainer" she breathes, and I can tell that just talking takes her effort. "I knew I wanted to ally with you. You were just so…"

"Stupid?" I offer.

"Honest," she corrects. "I told Woof and Cecelia I wanted to team up with you right off the bat."

Something tugs at her features.

"Woof was all for it, but he's wasted half the time. Cecelia was a little more cautious, though."

I rack my brains, trying to place the name: Cecelia was one of Eight's only living female victors.

"She's the one with kids, right?" I say, picturing the three children that clung to her hip during Tressa's reaping replay.

She nods, smiling sadly. "Funny you should say that."

"Why?"

"She said that if any of her kids got reaped, she would do exactly what Finnick Odair was doing."

"What Finnick was doing?"

Tressa looks at me, confused. "You didn't know?"

"Know what?"

"Cecelia said he was with the mentors from One and Two twenty-four seven trying to secure you a place in the career pack. And if he wasn't doing that, he was chatting up potential sponsors. Like, to the point of obsession."

I almost drop the match I'd been fiddling with. "Me? In the career pack? There's no way."

Tressa laughs, although it comes out more like a wheeze. "That's what Brutus and Enobaria said."

I frown, trying to figure out if Tressa is messing with me or not.

"That makes no sense, Blythe would have me killed in two-seconds flat. Finnick knows that."

"He probably also knows the careers were your best shot." Tressa returns, looking down, towards her mangled leg.

I tip her chin up, looking her straight on. "We've still got one leg and one arm between us. That's not so bad."

She laughs softly. "See, you're doing it again."

I remove my hand, suddenly realising just how badly I needed Tressa to be okay. The thought of sitting in this cave all alone, or worse, with the career pack was enough to turn my stomach. And to think, I was debating her death a few hours ago.

"Anyway," Tressa continues. "Cecelia said she'd never seen him like that. Not to me, of course. I don't think she wanted me to worry. But I overheard her one night talking to Woof about her children."

She pauses, a distinct shade of uncertainty colouring her features.

"She said it was every victor's worst nightmare… to have your kid in the games."

She looks up at me, then, face gentle and sad.

I can't suppress my laughter.

"Tressa," I say struggling between snickers. "Finnick's only eight years older than me… I'm pretty sure that's impossible, even for him."

She punches my arm lightly. "I'm not saying that!" she huffs. "God, I'm not _that_ stupid."

"Had me fooled."

"I'm just saying, it must be nice to know that someone's looking out for you like that."

I roll my eyes, trying to stifle my concern when I realise just how weak she really sounds.

"I'm looking out for you like that," I say, tucking the end of the sleeping back up around her chin.

She relaxes into its hazy heat, wincing slightly when she adjusts her leg. Then her stomach growls loudly.

"I'm starving," she complains.

"Well, we ate our last piece of jerky a few miles back," I reply, getting to my feet. "I can go and get us some tree bark?"

She arches an eyebrow. "Tree bark?"

I nod. "It's gross but it's good. I won't take long, don't go anywhere."

She laughs at that, closing her eyes and leaning against the mouth of the cave. "As if I have a choice."

The anthem goes off just as I reach a tree about a five-minute walk from our camp. I'm cautious to stray too far, just in case Tressa needs me. Staying within shouting distance seems reasonable. Especially given the state of her leg.

There are two tributes dead today. The boy from Seven and the girl from Nine. At least one of them must've been killed by the mutt. Maybe both. It's impossible to be sure. I try not to linger on their faces, afraid of the scenarios my brain might conjure up when I fall asleep.

I rip off a few handfuls of wet bark – nice and easy to chew – and slip them into my pocket. When I turn around, I catch sight of something small and shiny floating past the tip of my nose, settling a stone's throw from my feet.

A parachute!

I drop to my knees at once, unfurling the string with fumbling fingers. Inside the silver container is a small pot, the size and shape of lip-balm tin. I sniff the contents carefully, nose tingling at the sharp, medicinal scent. Tressa's leg! I beam at the sight of it, glancing up at the sky gratefully.

"Thank you, Finnick."

At once, I pocket the balm and double back on my tracks, heading towards the cave. The cost of this medicine would have been astronomical. Not one but many sponsors must have contributed to buy me this gift.

I hold it carefully in my palm, as if it is glass, and busy myself imagining the look on Tressa's face when she sees it. Something warm and hopeful blooms in my chest at the thought.

 _We're going to be okay,_ I think to myself. _We're actually going to be okay._

I can survive on a diet of tree bark and bad jokes if that's what it takes to keep Tressa with me. And we can't be doing too badly if so many sponsors have come to our aid, can we?

I am just rounding the corner towards our small camp when I catch sight of Tressa. I had expected to find her sleeping or, at best, zoned out. But her blue eyes are wide and alert, fixed on a point far beyond me. Her hands, pale from blood loss, are not tucked into the sleeping bag where I left them. Instead, they are clutching desperately at her throat.

Her throat, which is slit wide open.

She scrambles and chokes where she sits, trying to form a word or a warning but it's already far too late.

Because standing above her, just to the side, is the last person I wanted to see. The first person I wanted dead, and the only person that could possibly find this situation bearable.

Tressa's canon fires just as Blythe meets my eyes.

"Hello, Four." She wipes the bloody end of her knife on her trousers. "Have I been looking for you."


End file.
